


What You Need

by Brighid45



Series: Treatment [16]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 93,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighid45/pseuds/Brighid45
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seventeenth story in the Treatment 'verse. You can't always get what you want . . . but discovering what you need isn't easy. NOTE: this series is AU to canon storyline after the S5 finale 'Both Sides Now'. OC romance, humor, drama, angst. Now revised and updated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Doctor Gregory House and other canon characters featured in this work of fiction belong to NBC/Universal and David Shore. Original characters are my creation. I make no money from writing these stories, it’s done for pure enjoyment. All literary passages, quotes and song lyrics are used without permission; I do not own them or make money from using them.

_September 2nd_

_Labor Day_

_Dear Sydney,_

_it feels a bit odd writing to you, you having shuffled off this mortal coil and all, but a good friend gave me your letters, and they in turn gave me the idea to explore my thoughts and observations this way. And I don’t think you’d mind, anyway. So here we are._

Sarah paused and looked out over the back yard. A soft breeze tugged at her curls, played with the page on which she wrote. It was a fine day, warm and sunny; clouds chased each other across a pale blue sky. But the trees had already begun to turn, and the brush at the edges of the wood across the meadow showed golden-brown. “The time of no reply,” she said aloud, and heard Nick Drake’s soft, clear voice sing the song in her mind. She put pen to paper once more.

_I’m feeling a little lost and lonely at the moment, so I’m taking a good look at what’s going on in my life, and with the people around me. It’s an occupational hazard for our profession, I think._

_If I were to consider my current mood, it seems to stem mainly from missing spending time with my children. I broke my arm earlier this summer, and my family spoiled me thoroughly by hanging out with me at every opportunity._

_I should explain--they’re not really mine in the sense of bloodlines and physically giving birth. To be truthful, it would be impossible for my oldest to really be my child in more ways than one—but all three boys belong to me._

_The oldest . . . you’d find him a fascinating case, Sydney. I’ve never met anyone with such a strong and overriding rational mind, absolutely convinced that he’s composed entirely of logic and empirical observation, and yet the owner of a powerful and . . . I was going to write ‘skilled’, but that isn’t quite the word. ‘Observant’, perhaps—observant intuition. Yes, that fits better. At any rate, his higher consciousness is amused at the conscious mind’s insistence on being the only game in town. It’s quite enlightening, watching him use both in tandem to great advantage, and pride himself on his rational approach._

Sarah paused.

_Perhaps ‘pride’ is the wrong word. Greg is the least prideful person I’ve ever met. He can be arrogant, overbearing, sarcastic, abrasive, impatient, manipulative, and sometimes cruel, but he is not proud. His first goal is to be right, and by that he means absolute truth. You and I both know the truth is a three-edged sword: there’s your truth, mine, and what is. Greg seeks that third option._

_From all this talk of his single-mindedness, you might think he’s a humorless, pedantic jerk. Nothing could be further from the truth. He’s equal parts brilliance and hyperactive eight year old. No one sees more beauty in a drop of water or a note of music. He delights in humor and small wonders—the condensation of breath on a window-pane, the way the laws of physics move a Hot Wheels car through a descending maze of CD cases, the trajectory of a baseball, the play of puns and jokes. And he soaks up love like a sponge, now that he’s beginning to open himself to trust. For someone who’s endured many betrayals and a great deal of pain at the hands of people who supposedly cared for him, that says much about his character._

_I still remember the first time I met him, when profound pain and fear had him trapped in loneliness and misery. He’s come so far, and I’m so proud of him. You’d probably smile if I told you he’s a decade older than me, but he’s still my son. You’d understand families are not made just of blood and DNA and who birthed whom, but also of heart and spirit. Maybe mainly of those last two._

_He does have someone, Sydney—a wonderful woman who loves and is loved by him. They’re good for each other. Their relationship hasn’t been an easy one, but I don’t think they mind, in the end. It keeps them both from getting bored, at any rate._

Sarah turned the page and picked up her drink, took a sip and savored the sweet fire of fresh ginger, lime juice and honey paired with sparkling water. She moved her gaze to Greg and Roz’s place, smiled a little at the sight of Roz’s truck in the driveway. Her friend was taking more time off from her work as an electrician to tutor students at both the middle and high school levels, with the possibility of adding elementary students next year. It was a good change for her; her self-confidence had grown over the summer as her pupils had progressed. And she’d begun to come home a little early, to meet her husband for an hour or two of quality time together. “Nice work if you can get it,” Sarah said under her breath with a chuckle, and turned back to her letter.

_As for my middle child, he was something of a surprise. I wonder—how many mothers have said that of their next baby? I’d never expected Rob Chase to enter my life the way he has. When we met he was struggling, trying to bring some meaning to his existence. It hasn’t been easy for him, but he’s found his own strength and moved away from drowning his pain in alcohol and ending up with women who inevitably leave him the way his mother did. He’s become more sure of himself, of what he wants and what he can do, and it’s been a delight watching him grow. He’s found someone too, a ready-made family. He and his Clare are still in the courting stage, but I think it won’t be much longer before we’ll be renting out the fire hall for the reception. The best part of that, Sydney, is my husband and I being offered the job of surrogate grandparents. We’ve already bought a playpen and toys. And neither of us has the slightest doubt that the number of grandchildren will increase, given time and opportunity._

_As for my youngest . . ._

Sarah paused. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a moment, as she listened to sounds from the house behind her. Jason was awake; she’d seen him in the kitchen earlier, still in his sleep pants and tee shirt, as he rummaged through the fridge for a quick pre-breakfast snack. Undoubtedly he’d taken a couple of slices of cold pizza and a surreptitious (and forbidden) Coke back to the office, to devour while he worked on yet another extra-credit project.

_We adopted him, Sydney. I still can’t believe he’s really ours. Jason is the most amazing boy. He came to us by accident, quite literally, from a history of profound abuse and pain--a history he’s still learning to face, acknowledge and accept. It hasn’t been easy for him, but he’s willing to learn and grow. His courage is immense, and it humbles me to see it._

_Of course he’s also a teenager, with all the changes and challenges his age brings. Gene and I had to ground him last month for taking the truck into town alone. He’s still on a learner’s permit and needs an adult to ride with him, but in his mind, his need to go to work two hours earlier than scheduled outweighed our decision to the contrary. Even after we grounded him, he continued to argue his point. The day after the grounding ended, he took the truck into town to go to work two hours early. So we sat down and talked with him about why he felt the need to repeat such an action, as he’s not defiant by nature. It was one of the best two hours we’ve spent together as a family—not because what we talked about came easily, but because Jason trusted Gene and me enough to answer our questions honestly and without hesitation. We learned he felt it was his responsibility to do as much for his employer as he could, whether he was paid for it or not, and whether it got him into trouble or not. We worked out a compromise, but the true reward was the strengthening of trust and understanding among all of us._

Sarah remembered her own teenage years, the struggle to move from chaos and hopelessness to find a way forward. It had given her the insight to find her own strength, but she was still glad Jason had parents to offer him another, better method of discovery.

_Sydney, I think you would like Gene. He’s ‘a pirate of exquisite mind’, and my best friend. It’s been tough watching him struggle with his wartime experiences, with the loss of his family contacts, but he’s worked hard to find the patterns in his behavior, and he’s even started a dream journal to recover some of his memories—a big step for someone who’s spent a lot of time and energy trying to forget what happened to him during his childhood, and his time in the military. Over the summer he took excellent care of me while my arm healed, and it was made clear, if I’d ever forgotten it, that he truly is my best friend. I hope I’m his as well. Spending time in his company is a privilege. When he’s not here it feels like part of me is missing somehow._

_As for my own experience . . . it’s been an interesting summer. Usually this time of year is spent in bringing in the harvest and fixing things around the house, but having a broken arm put paid to much of that. It sent my attention into my practice, and working on a paper that may or may not ever get published. I think at this point it’s just cheap therapy, ha ha._

“Mom?” Jason stood in the doorway. “Do you want me to make breakfast?”

“I’ll be right in,” Sarah said. “What would you like?”

“Bacon and eggs. And waffles. I can get the bacon started.”

“Okay, that would be great. I’ll be there in a minute.”

_Well Sydney, I’m being called away to get the day started, so I’ll leave the rest of my own progress for another letter. Writing to you is easier than I thought it would be. I think this might just be a regular thing. Hope you don’t mind hearing all the news now and then._

_All my best, and say hello to Carl and Sigmund for me—Sarah_

She finished the letter, removed the page from the notebook and tucked the paper in the folder at the back. Slowly she got to her feet, stretched a little, rolled her shoulder—still stiff and sore, but better than a heavy cast—and went into the house on a yawn.

_‘Time Of No Reply,’ Nick Drake_


	2. Chapter 2

_September 8th_

It’s the end of a long and boring Monday. Well, not all that long, since Greg’s decided to cut out of work early as usual—there’s nothing kicking, his team still sorts through files and puts in clinic hours, and as far as he’s concerned there’s no point in a waste of time that could be put to better use at home, with a cold beer in hand while he watches porn, or a game.

Still, it’s the kind of day that makes Greg wish he could drive with the top down. It’s warm and sunny, with a blue sky overhead and a nice breeze. The initial signs of fall have arrived, noticeable in the yellowed weeds and faint colors on the edges of leaves—a little early this year, but if it means a long, soft autumn, he’ll take it. For now the rich bounty of harvest is still in full swing. And the fire company carnival is on at the picnic grounds, it starts this week. He fully intends to take his wife out for funnel cakes, cotton candy and an illicit grope on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

He roars up the driveway and is pleasantly surprised to find Roz’s truck pulled into the side yard. She’s home early, which means she gave herself the afternoon off. She does that a bit more often now, and he approves. It’s cut into their household budget somewhat, but he considers the tradeoff in a happier wife and lover to be more than adequate compensation.

It’s a matter of just a few minutes to park Barbarella next to the truck, hop out and walk to the back door. He can hear the music from the yard—she’s got some Eighties mix on, that’s more than obvious. The old house practically jumps on its foundation. Bob Gibbs would be both appalled and delighted. With a grin Greg shoulders his backpack and heads on in.

Roz is in the kitchen, clad in her short cutoffs, the lacy black tank top he loves, and a clean white apron. There are books and a lesson plan on the kitchen table, so she’s got two projects going. At the moment she makes what appears to be pesto, with an enormous mound of chopped basil on the big cutting board next to the _mezzaluna_ she always uses for such chores. At the moment however she’s busy as she grinds her hips and bops in place to the hard, growling bass of the song.

_hey, here is the story_

_forget about your troubles in life_

_don't you know it's not easy?_

_when you gotta walk upon that line_

She may not be the world’s greatest singer, but she dances like a wild and dirty angel, and he loves every hot, sultry move she makes. Greg slides his backpack to the floor and leans against the jamb, arms folded, as he enjoys the show. She rolls her body like a long, slow wave and suddenly his jeans are too tight.

_that's what you need, oh that's what_

_this is what you need, I'll give you what you need, yeah_

_don't you get sad and lonely_

_you need a change from what you do all day_

_ain't no sense in all your crying_

_just pick it up and throw it into shape, ooh yeah_

After a minute or so she turns and sees him. She doesn’t flinch or show surprise, so he suspects she’s known all along he was there. Instead she comes to him, and shakes her slender hips in a deliberate, cocky strut that has him ready to take her without any further formalities. She gives him a look from moss-green eyes, an invitation he has no intention to refuse, and reaches out to put her hands on his shoulders. She draws him away from the door and into the kitchen, as she moves to the beat. 

_that's what you need, oh that's what_

_this is what you need, I'll give you what you need, yeah_

Cautiously, he moves with her a little. He remembers times in years past, on the dance floor with Stacy, when his athleticism gave him a grace he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise. Now, too many years of pain and lack of mobility have taken his moves.

His wife doesn’t think so, though. She slips her hands down to his hips and sways with him, matches his rhythm. The next thing he knows they’re dancing—they actually dance face to face, in time with the beat.

_hey you, won't you listen?_

_this is not the end of it all_

_don't you see, there is a rhythm?_

_I'll take you where you really need to be_

It’s so unexpected it startles a laugh out of him. Roz grins, her lean, dark features bright with happiness. Greg keeps his eyes on her as he loosens up a little. The right thigh is just fine, and follows his commands without hesitation; there’s a residual ache he knows probably won’t ever go away, but it’s nothing, a mere echo of the raging agony he’s endured for so long.

She feels his movement and lets go of him for a moment to raise her arms in a victory salute, fists clenched. “Yesssss,” she says on a laugh. Then she takes hold of him once more and they spin in a slow spiral across the kitchen, which gives him the opportunity to get close enough for him to lean in and kiss her.

_what you need, what you need_

_I'll give it all, I'll give it all, I'll take you_

_I'll take you where you want to be_

_that's right_

They move through the living room and into the bedroom, to fall in slow motion on the bed. He slips his hands under her tank top and she gasps against his lips as he cups her breasts, small and warm; his thumbs flick her nipples. She tugs at his tee shirt and he grins down at her.

“Two seconds to peel panties,” he says, and she laughs before she gives him a light smack on the chest.

There are clothes strewn all over the place by the time they come together. He groans as he slides into her, feels her strong thighs under his, smells the salty musk of her slick skin with just a spicy little hint of fresh basil, and starts to move slow and deep. He trails his mouth over her neck as she sighs and moans and lifts her hips—still a dance, but in a more primal way, the oldest dance on earth.

Soon enough they lie spent in a delicious pool of afterglow, too exhausted to do anything except breathe. Afternoon sun illuminates the foot of the bed, warm and golden. The music from the kitchen has ended, to leave them surrounded by quiet.

“So how did your tutoring go?” Greg asks, and Roz laughs softly.

“I don’t even remember.”

“Good.” He tucks an errant lock of her dark hair into place. A few moments later he hears a little chirp, and then a soft thump as Hellboy jumps up onto the bed. He walks to them with his tail held high, ears and whiskers forward—all signs of affection and greeting, Greg knows that now. Roz holds out her hand and the cat rubs his cheek against it before he moves forward to claim a spot where both humans can stroke and pet him.

“There’s a pussy joke in this somewhere,” Greg says as he scritches the Heebster’s ears. Roz rolls her eyes.

“For you maybe.” She runs gentle fingers over glossy black fur and is rewarded with a rumbling purr.

“Aaaaaand, there it is.”

“Horndog.”

It is pleasant to lie there and do nothing more than enjoy the company of his wife and the cat. He would never admit it to anyone, not even Sarah, but he’s come to rely on these little moments in time. They offer a silent form of healing, a chance to catch his breath, slow down, relax a bit—things he never knew he needed or even wanted, but then much has changed in his life over the last few years, to say the least.

All good things come to an end eventually, however. The sunlight has nearly left the window when Roz stirs, stretches a little. She leans in to kiss him, her lips soft on his.

“How about I finish up the pesto and we go out for dinner?” she says.

“In a while.” He doesn’t want to leave this moment, not yet. Roz puts her hand on his shoulder, rubs gently. After a moment she rolls over a bit, takes a battered paperback off the nightstand.

“I read something the other day,” she says—always a prelude to poetry or passages from books, both old favorites and new discoveries. He loves this as much as she does—when they listen to the words, the spark of talk back and forth as they think out loud together.

“ _’It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles_ ,’” she begins,

_Growing wild at the gable of the house_

_Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:_

_Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice._

 

_But, to be fair, it also spelled promise_

_And newness in the back yard of our life_

_As if something callow yet tenacious_

_Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife._

 

_The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday_

_Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:_

_My last things will be first things slipping from me_

_Yet let all things go free that have survived._

 

_Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless_

_Like inmates liberated in that yard._

_Like the disregarded ones we turned against_

_Because we’d failed them by our disregard._

“Seamus Heaney,” he says eventually, after her voice has gone quiet. “Working with basil made you think of mint.”

Roz smiles a little at his lame joke. “I used to feel like the mint,” she says, and rests her cheek on his shoulder. The simplicity of that statement belies the enormous implication behind it, one that both delights and terrifies him.

“You were never the mint.” He needs her to know that.

“Yeah, I was. Still am, inside. I don’t know if that makes sense. But it’s okay. Mint’s a good herb. It grows where it’s planted, as long as it gets a little water and sunlight.” She puts her toes on his calf, massages it gently. “Where do you want to go for dinner?”

Of course they end up at her grandfather’s place, which doesn’t bother Greg in the least; the food’s good and it’s close by. Sarah is their server. She’s been liberated from the cast for a month or so now, and happy to be back at work by all appearances. Now she smiles at them, pencil and pad poised to take their order. “What’ll it be tonight?”

“Who’s cooking?” Greg wants to know. Sarah gives him a stern look.

“Lou’s here supervising, if that makes you feel better.” She taps the pad with her pencil. “Gimme your order.”

“The new guy can’t cook for shit.”

“I don’t know why you have this irrational prejudice against David,” Sarah says. She narrows her eyes. “Unless you know something the rest of us mere mortals don’t.”

He’s not about to disclose that he’s done some digging online to supplement his personal observations. “I know what my taste buds tell me. He’s a poser.”

“His style is a little different from Lou’s. That doesn’t make it better or worse, it’s just different.”

“Yeah yeah, next you’ll be telling me unicorns poop rainbows,” he snaps. “He can’t cook.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “What you really mean is, he’s not Lou.” She leans in a bit. “Get over it. Poppi and your wife found a good man to manage the place. He’s been here all of two weeks and is still settling in. Give him a chance to show you he knows what he’s doing.” She pins Greg with her best stare, which is actually pretty intimidating. “Now quit whining and order.”

“We’ll have pizza,” Roz says before he can answer. “The usual—half veggie, half sausage, pepperoni and bacon.”

“Fries and a double order of onion rings extra crispy,” Greg adds in. “And a beer.”

“This is a family establishment,” Sarah says. There’s a twinkle of amusement in her eye now. “We do not serve alcohol. Soda, iced tea, lemonade or water, take your pick.”

“Two iced teas please.” Roz gives Sarah a warm smile and ignores Greg’s glare.

“You don’t answer for me,” he says.

“Normally no, I don’t. But when you’re being a jerk to someone who’s trying to get you to see another point of view, I’ll step in. You knew that before you married me.” She sits back and folds her arms, regards him with a sardonic amusement that both annoys and delights him.

“I don’t need a whole year to decide if someone’s a bad cook.”

“Sarah didn’t say that. We’ve eaten here twice since David took over kitchen management. Both meals were excellent, but you’re just too stubborn to say so.” To his surprise she leans in and kisses his cheek. “I know this is mostly about hating changes, but thank you for being so loyal to my Poppi,” she says softly. He turns to look at her. Up close he sees the little gold spots in her green eyes, the faint laugh lines at the corners of her lids, the smoothness of her golden-brown skin.

“Not mint,” he says, just loud enough for her to hear. “ _Rosamundi_.” He sees it in his mind’s eye. “It’s a real flower. The Romans grew them. They’re white with red stripes and a gold center. I remember them from someone’s garden in Italy, years ago. They were the most beautiful roses . . .” He falters to a stop, and doesn’t know what more to say.

“ _Amante_ ,” Roz says, and kisses him again, this time on the lips, a soft caress. He savors it, savors the closeness of her.

When the pizza and sides come out, it isn’t Sarah who brings them. It’s the new kid. He isn’t actually a kid—he’s in his thirties, average height, dark wavy hair and eyes, decent looks, with wide shoulders and strong hands. His apron shows the signs of an evening’s work, but under the smears of sauce and oil it’s clean. David places the pizza, fries and rings on the table and offers them a smile. It’s genuine, friendly without being too forward. “Let me know what you think,” he says. Greg snorts.

“Yeah, right.”

“No, I mean it,” he says. The smile is still there, but there’s a quiet seriousness behind it that tells its own story. “I’d like to know what you really think of my cooking. I’m not here to take over and make this my signature restaurant. If I wanted to do that I’d buy my own place.”

“So why did you take the gig?” Greg asks. He’s drawn his own conclusions on that score, but to hear it from the source is always better than an educated guess.

“It’s a good offer,” David says simply. “Lou has a great place and he runs it right. It’s popular. So it’s a chance for me to show that I can keep a good thing going, and add my own touches here and there without changing things so much people get upset.”

“That’s what you’ll settle for? Working in someone else’s shadow?”

David folds his arms, much as Roz did earlier. “Well, I guess I don’t see it that way, Doctor House. It’s more like an apprenticeship with a master. Lou’s willing to teach me everything he knows, and that’s the chance of a lifetime. And there’s informal _sommelier_ training too.” He grins, and suddenly his face lights up. “I’m getting more out of it than Lou is, but fortunately for me, he hasn’t figured that out yet.” He gestures at the food. “I really would like to know what you think.”

It’s delicious, of course; the pizza is exactly the right combination of crust, sauce and cheese, with plenty of meat on his side of the pie; the onion rings are just this side of scorched, caramelized and crispy, and the fries are crunchy on the outside, tender on the inside. Even the iced tea is good. He eats without comment and watches Roz do the same. She doesn’t stuff it in the way he does, she savors each bite. By the time he’s cleared three pieces, she’s still on the first one.

“Slacker,” he accuses, and glances at the door when he hears Chase’s voice. Sure enough, it’s his fellow with Clare and her children. Greg looks back at Roz. She’s seen them, and just for one fleeting moment she hesitates. Then she’s up and moves toward them, to give Clare a quick hug and scoop up Josh, who wraps his arms around her neck and plants a wet sloppy kiss on her face.

The next thing Greg knows, they’re crowded next to the booth and everything is cheerful confusion, as toddlers reach for food and drinks and Chase shoulders a diaper bag the size of a Volkswagen, and Clare says “I hope we’re not interrupting your evening, Doctor House. We can sit in another part of the restaurant if you like.”

He’s about to tell her and her boyfriend to get lost when Roz puts a gentle hand on his arm. He knows her well enough by now to interpret this to mean ‘I’d like them to stay but it’s up to you’. For a moment he’s not sure what to say. This is not easy for her, and yet she enjoys it all the same—she’s even babysat the curtain climbers a few times over the last month or two. “Sit,” he says at last, ungracious and grudging. Chase gives him an ironic look, but there’s a smile there too, which is thoroughly offensive. Greg chooses to ignore it.

Now Roz has the little boy perched on her lap as she feeds him a french fry (with his mother’s permission, something Roz is careful to ask for first). He consumes it with enthusiasm and a textbook demonstration of a toddler’s lack of fine motor skills. She manages him so easily it makes Greg’s heart ache, a feeling he hates. “Any traction on the case?” he asks Chase, who shakes his head.

“Still waiting for the last couple of tests to come in. We’ll know more by midnight at the latest. Patient’s doing okay.” With admirable calm he fields the remnant of a french fry thrown at him. “Josh, uh uh,” he says. Greg can only imagine what John House would have said or done.

They stay another twenty minutes before Roz finally says “Let’s get everything packed up and go see the chef.” She smiles at Claire and Rob. “We’ll take your order back if you like.”

“He’s not a chef, he’s a short order cook,” Greg says, but Roz doesn’t take the bait. As they’re on the way back to the kitchen he says “Nice way to get out of an awkward situation.”

“It wasn’t an awkward situation for me,” she says quietly. He doesn't say anything more until after they've paid their compliments to the cook--well, she does, he just gives Junior a cool stare--and are on their way home.

"It was awkward. I saw your face when they came in. Being around kids hurts you."

Roz looks at him. "Sometimes it's hard, yes."

"Then why-" he begins, but she goes on.

"Sometimes it hurts, but the joy is stronger than the pain. We've made a decision not to have our own children, and that's good for both of us. But I like being around other people's kids. It's a good thing, since I'm a tutor." She smiles at him. "And I get to be the crazy auntie for Clare's two. Did it ever occur to you you could be their eccentric, kinda dangerous but fabulously cool uncle?"

"Huh," he says, much taken by the thought and unwilling to admit it. "You really don't want to unleash me on those innocent little goobers."

Roz chuckles. "Rob will keep you in line. So will Clare." She leans over to whisper in his ear. "If they don't, I will."

"Promises," he says in a derisive tone, but the idea's been planted, and now he'll have to think about it.

Later that evening, while Roz is out in the barn to check on the horse, he calls Sarah. "What do you know about roses?"

"Can be tricky to grow but worth the trouble," she says. "You thinking of pulling a Sean Thornton and putting in flowers instead of cabbage?"

"Just one bush, or rambler or whatever it is."

"Do you have a variety in mind, or-"

" _Rosa gallica_." He's looked it up and also searched growing requirements, but he wants the advice of an experienced gardener too.

" _Rosa mundi_ ," Sarah says. She's silent a moment. "You could put in several bushes along that east-facing exposure. It gets plenty of sun and good air circulation. You'll have to keep an eye out for the usual suspects like black spot and powdery mildew and aphids, but I can help with that if you like."

"I need you to order them for me."

"In the spring," she says again, and now he can tell she's smiling. "Anything else, son?"

He hears Roz coming in. "Nope," he says, and hangs up. They're just barely into fall now, but spring will get here soon enough. Time to plan and get ready to give the roses what they need.

 

_'What You Need', INXS_

_'Mint', Seamus Heaney_


	3. Chapter 3

_September 12th_

Jason opened his locker and glanced down the hall. He frowned and squinted, but Mandy was nowhere in sight. That was strange--usually she was here at her own locker, since her classes got out at the same time his did. She was quicker to leave than he was, though; she kept her locker tidy, and she had most of her books on a Kindle anyway. She liked ebooks as well as paper ones. "Ebooks let me take more reading with me," she'd said. He didn't really understand that statement; you could only read one book at a time, after all--but that was Mandy, the worst bookworm he'd ever met, and that included his mother. Mom had a couple of paperbacks tucked in her purse at all times. She even read in the checkout line at the supermarket.

With a final glance down the hallway Jason closed the locker, hefted his backpack and went to the front entrance where the buses waited. He didn't mind the ride to and from school now. Of course with mega-bully Ferguson long since gone, things were a lot quieter. But as he'd known would happen, there were always others who attempted to take his place. Still, his boxing lessons with Dad had paid off. It had taken two showdowns and a few hard punches to the ribs, not to mention a black eye, but he’d delivered a lot worse to the other participants. Now the dickwads knew he was good in a fight, and he meant business. And he would protect anyone they tried to pick on. As a consequence, the ride home was fairly peaceful for everyone.

Slowly he walked to his bus as he half-listened to the song on his playlist. He still didn't see Mandy anywhere, and he started to worry a bit. This wasn't like her at all. She was always on time, in fact she arrived early nearly everywhere she went, and she didn't forget anything.

"Hey Jason!" The driver gave him a friendly grin. "Whatcha listenin' to?"

"Professor Longhair," Jason said. He knew Eddie wouldn't have a clue who that was.

"Don't know 'im," Eddie said. "What's he play?"

"Blues piano."

"Cool! Send it to me!"

Jason nodded and looked for a seat. The bus was half-full, mostly with freshmen and sophomores who were on early-release schedules. Mandy was absent. He stood there for a moment as he debated on whether or not to look for her, then thought to check his phone. There was a text message he'd missed earlier during PE.

_Riding home with Stuart. See you later-M_

Jason stared at the sentence, startled. Who the hell was Stuart? Mandy hadn't mentioned anyone by that name-but then she'd met a lot of people since they'd started high school, so many he couldn't keep track of them. She was social by nature, he understood that; he'd always thought most writers were reclusive and loners, but she was the exception to the rule.

Slowly he took a seat and sent a reply.

_ok c u at home_

He knew she hated the abbreviations and slang most people used online, but he liked them because it meant he had to pay less attention to his spelling and grammar, and anything that kept him out of the arcane rules of English was fine by him.

He stared out the window as the bus rumbled away from the school and headed down the road. Fall had arrived early this year. The trees had begun to turn, with their outer leaves already blushed scarlet and gold. He and Mom had started cleanup of the garden too, and put in their plants for fall crops. He was a little nervous about all the broccoli and kale they’d put in, but there was lettuce and radishes, and carrots too. And this year they’d tried a row of garlic to overwinter, something new.

"That's what gardening is all about," Mom had said, and wiped the sweat out of her eyes. "Old favorites and new tastes. That way things don't get boring."

Jason had read up on companion plants and square foot gardening. When he and Mom were ready to work on their plans for next spring, he would have some suggestions for how to plant more in less space.

Soon enough he was dropped off at his house. He strode down the driveway and went around to the back. Mister Parelli, the new manager at Poppi’s restaurant, had given him today and tomorrow off on the work schedule, and he didn't have to go in for anatomy tutoring until Friday. Mom would see clients in her office this afternoon, and Dad was in Minneapolis on a consult, so he'd have the place to himself for a couple of hours. He keyed in his code and went into the mudroom, and thought about Mandy. As he dumped his backpack by the kitchen door and toed off his sneakers, he tried to picture someone named Stuart in their classes. All he came up with was a blank.

 _Maybe he's a junior, or even a senior._ The thought was not a welcome one. Mandy was smart, and she was beautiful too, though she didn't think she was. She'd grown in height a little over the summer and while she was still what most people would consider plump, he thought it looked good on her. He couldn't be the only one who saw how pretty she was . . .

That realization bothered him the whole time he did his chores. It nagged at him while he put a load of clothes in the wash and brought clean items in off the outside line. He folded sheets and pillowcases, tucked Mom's lavender sachets in the stacks of towels, and the thought never left him: Mandy was with someone named Stuart, and not with him.

He had just taken some hard salami out of the fridge to make a sandwich when his phone rang. He glanced at the ID; it was Mandy.

"Hey," she said. She sounded rushed but not unhappy. "I'm running a little late. Stuart's driving me to your place in about fifteen minutes. I'll see you then."

"Who's Stuart?" Jason demanded, but she was already gone. He ended the call, frowned, and continued to make his sandwich.

He’d just finished a second sandwich and moved on to an apple and some chips when he heard Mandy key in her code at the front door. “Jason, it’s just me!” she called as she always did. A few moments later she came into the kitchen. “Sorry I’m late,” she said. She didn’t quite look at him.

“Who’s Stuart?” Jason asked. Mandy put her backpack by the mudroom door.

“A guy in my Creative Writing class,” she said. “I’m gonna make a salad.”

Jason rolled his eyes. She always ate healthy stuff. “Is he a senior?”

Mandy opened the fridge door. “A junior.”

“You’re a freshman.” He sliced the apple with more care than usual.

“That doesn’t mean we can’t talk to each other.” Mandy took out a container of spring greens—Mom had picked them earlier in the day. “We’re just writing partners. It’s not a big deal.”

Jason was surprised to find it was a big deal to him. “What’s he like?”

Mandy chose a bottle of olive oil from the selection by the stove. “I don’t know. He’s a guy.”

This lack of detail was so uncharacteristic Jason turned to look at her. Suspicion twined through his thoughts like the bindweed he and Mom battled in the garden. “A junior guy.”

“What do you care?” She sprinkled her salad with the oil. “It’s not like he and I are dating.”

“Has he asked you?”

Mandy looked at him. “No one’s asked me,” she said flatly. “I’m going out on the back porch.” She took her salad and left the kitchen; Jason wouldn’t say she flounced exactly, but she put a lot of force in each step, and almost slammed the screen door. He watched her leave, confused by her anger. For lack of anything better to do he munched an apple slice and tried to make sense of the conversation. There were hidden currents, that much he knew, but what they meant and how to interpret them was beyond his capacity. When Mom came home, he’d ask her. For now, maybe the best policy was to pretend the last five minutes hadn’t happened.

Eventually he grabbed his backpack and joined Mandy on the porch. She worked on her laptop, of course; her fingers flew over the keys. She was the fastest typist he’d ever seen, and he knew she was accurate. He always felt inadequate next to her, with his halting, hunt-and-peck style, bad spelling and grammar. Slowly he sat down and took a book from his backpack. It was pre-Calc; he was already done with his homework, but there were some extra credit units he could work on.

He’d nearly finished the first one when he felt Mandy watch him. When he lifted his gaze to hers, he was surprised to find she had tears in her eyes. “What’s . . . what’s wrong?” he asked with a reluctance he couldn’t hide.

“Nothing.” The way she said it, he knew she meant exactly the opposite. His mother had often said the same thing when she’d decided it was time to punish him for something he had or hadn’t done; fear blossomed inside him at the thought that it would happen all over again.

“What did I do wrong?” He tried hard not to sound anxious. Apparently he hadn’t succeeded, if the look Mandy gave him was anything to go by. She sat back and stopped typing.

“You didn’t do anything,” she said quietly. There was a peculiar intensity to the words . . . Jason stared at her, struggled to understand while he battled with his feelings.

“Then why . . .” He stopped as comprehension slowly filtered in. “You . . . you want to go on a _date_ with me?”

Mandy wiped her eyes. “Yes,” she said. It came out as something of a defiant statement. Jason’s fear faded. He took a breath.

“Why didn’t you just say so?”

“I wanted you to ask me first.” She wouldn’t look at him. “Just once, I’d like someone to ask me first.”

“I thought . . .” He played with his pencil, made it twirl between his fingers. “I thought you already were going out. With whoever. With this Stuart guy.”

“Who’d want to go out with me?” She said it so simply, as if it was an obvious fact.

“Why wouldn’t they?” He couldn’t hide his astonishment. Mandy’s eyes widened.

“What does that mean?” she wanted to know. Jason felt his face heat up and hated the way he blushed so easily.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, because he didn’t know any other way to say it. Silence descended. When he dared to look up, Mandy had tears in her eyes again, but she smiled now.

“So . . . so are you gonna ask me?” she said finally.

“Ask you what?” he dared to tease her just a bit. She bounced in her chair.

“Stop it!”

“So . . . let’s go out. On a date,” he said. She rolled her eyes.

“That’s not asking, that’s telling.”

“Jesus, you’re bossy,” he complained.

“Don’t swear.” But her smile widened. Jason sighed, though he wasn’t really upset. In fact he felt . . . well, he wasn’t quite sure. Excited, nervous, apprehensive . . .

“Mandy Faust, will you go out with me?”

For a moment she said nothing, and his fear returned. Maybe this was some elaborate setup on her part to get him to ask, just so she could hurt him . . . _No_ , he thought. _No, she won’t do that._

“Okay,” she said at last. “I mean, yes, thank you, Jason.” Another tear rolled down her cheek.

“Why are you crying?” he said, as his anxiety grew again. “Didn’t I say it right?”

“You did fine.” She wiped her face again. “When?”

Jason almost asked ‘when what’. “Uh . . . this weekend? We could go to a movie.”

Mandy’s eyes shone. “That would be great. I’ll ask my mom.”

Later, when Mom was home and he helped her with dinner, he told her what had happened. “I don’t know why she was crying,” he said at the end. Mom put bowls on the counter.

“It’s complicated,” she said, and laughed when he groaned. “You’d better get used to it, sweetheart. Women generally think about this kind of thing differently than men do.”

“Why didn’t she just _ask_ me?” he said, exasperated. “Why is there all this . . . _stuff_ about going on a stupid date? It’s not like we haven’t gone to the movies together before. Why’s it different now?”

“A lot of people wiser than you and me haven’t figured that one out yet, and I don’t think they ever will.” Mom took the bowls and a pair of spoons to the table. “You’ve liked Mandy for a long time, haven’t you?”

Jason felt another blush coming on. “Yeah.”

“So why didn’t you say something to her when you first thought about it?”

He removed the pot of chili from the stove and carried it into the dining room, to place it on the big cast-iron trivet they used for hot items. “I didn’t think she’d believe me.”

“You were afraid she’d reject you.”

Jason came back into the kitchen. “Well . . . yeah, I guess so.” He went to the fridge and got out the sour cream and cheese. “You think she’s liked me for a long time?”

“Yes.” Mom took a ladle from the hanging rack. “And that made it harder for her to say anything.”

“Yeah.” He watched Mom move around the kitchen. “Was it like that for you and Dad?”

“Why don’t you ask him when he calls tonight? You could use a man’s perspective on things.”

When Dad called later that evening, Jason did as Mom suggested. “So you finally asked Mandy out. Cool,” Dad said with a chuckle.

“ _Dad_ ,” Jason said. He was so tired of blushing. “Mom said to ask you about what it was like when you asked her out.”

“She did, did she.” He chuckled again. “The truth is, she didn’t think much of me when we first met. I knew she was the one, knew from my first sight of her, but I also wanted to be her friend.”

“Why?” Despite his misgivings, Jason couldn’t help but ask.

“Because I think if you’re doing things right, you’re friends first. Sometimes it leads to more, sometimes it doesn’t. But it’s a good place to start,” Dad said. “You and Mandy are friends, right?”

“Yeah,” Jason said with some caution. “I don’t . . . she’s just . . .” He stopped, confused. Was she more than that?

“A few dates together will help you get things sorted out,” Dad said. The reassurance in his words made Jason feel a little better. “So what are you planning?”

“Movie.”

“Okay, that’s a good idea. How about if Mom and I come with you? One of us will be driving you to the theater anyway. We can sit in another part of the audience. I haven’t taken my best girl out for a while now, it would be fun.” Dad hesitated. “Your mom and I both agreed that when you started going out with—someone, you would double-date or go to group activities for the first couple of years. After this weekend maybe you could find some friends in your class for you and Mandy to go out with.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, and felt an odd sense of relief. “Good idea. Thanks.”

When he saw Mandy the next day, she agreed to the double date. “Mom told me the same thing,” she said, and smiled at him.

“I don’t . . . I don’t really have any friends. Besides you,” he said.

“I’ve got a couple in Creative Writing—no, not Stuart,” she said at Jason’s frown. “I’ll talk to them. Maybe we could meet after school at Poppi Lou’s and you could get to know them.” Jason was silent. He wasn’t too sure about this. He didn’t really know how to make friends, though he did okay in his math and science classes at least. “It’ll be all right. You’ll like them. You like me, don’t you?” There was a teasing light in Mandy’s eyes now.

“Yes, I like you.” He pretended to be reluctant to say it, but it felt nice all the same. “I guess I can spend some time with your geek friends.”

“That’s good coming from a total science nerd.” She laughed, and Jason felt an odd flutter in his chest. He ignored it and pinned his thoughts on getting to know people. The idea didn’t thrill him. _We’ll see_ , he thought. _Yeah . . . we’ll see_.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             


	4. Chapter 4

_September 20th_

Sarah pulled into the drive and parked Minnie Lou in her usual summertime spot by the front porch. She turned off the engine, let out a long, slow breath and passed a hand over her curls. "Well," she said at last in the quiet. "Home again, home again, jiggety-jig." She looked at the front porch with the basil plants--a gift from Roz--in full leaf on either side of the steps, and felt a sudden sadness at the knowledge the growing season was nearly done for another year. She opened the door and climbed out, removed her briefcase and purse, stood for a moment in the soft afternoon sunshine. A mild breeze touched the leaves overhead, made them rustle and sigh. A few fluttered to the ground, more scarlet than green. Sarah watched them fall with a heavy heart. Much as she loved autumn, it was also a time of ending, of the loss of light and warmth.

After a few moments she turned away toward the house. As she passed the basil, their spicy fragrance lifted her heart a bit. They'd hold out for a while longer, with the radiant heat from the porch to offer some protection from chilly night temperatures.

It was quiet inside the house, but Sarah knew Jason was home. His coat hung over the back of a chair, his homework spread over the table. He was probably in the kitchen for a snack; sometimes she suspected he ate his body weight in food every day, and all it did was add inches to his height, not his middle. She envied him his fast metabolism, glad she and Gene could provide the nourishment he needed. She dropped her purse and briefcase into a convenient chair, shrugged out of her blazer, and made her way to the kitchen.

Jason turned as she entered. He held a stacked plate: a sandwich piled deep with turkey, cheese and a token leaf of lettuce, an apple, banana and several cookies. The sight didn't faze Sarah; she just smiled at him and went to the stove.

"Hey sweetheart, how was your day?" She put the kettle on and selected a mug from the collection on the counter, took a teabag from the canister next to them.

"It's Friday," Jason said. Sarah laughed and felt the tiredness of her afternoon lift away for a few moments.

"That it is. And it's full harvest moon too. We should do something special tonight." She took a spoon from the dish rack. "How about a bonfire?"

"Yeah," Jason said. "We could roast some marshmallows and make s’mores."

"Sounds good to me." Sarah stretched a little. "Would you do me a favor please, and get the mail? I forgot to stop on the way in."

"'kay." One moment to set the plate on the counter, and he was off. She watched him slip through the doorway, all long limbs and awkward agility.

 _Growing up so fast_ , she thought, and turned back to the stove. She'd just poured water over the teabag when Jason returned. He moved slowly, and there was an odd look on his face.

"You got a letter from Oklahoma," he said, and held it out to her. Sarah took it and checked the return address. Her eyes widened. Shock rippled through her.

" _Damn_ ," she whispered.

"Mom?" Jason moved closer. Now he sounded worried. "What is it?"

"My brother," she said, and stared at the envelope. The return had Ben’s name on it above an unfamiliar address . "The one who is—was in jail. He . . . it's from him."

Jason said nothing more. He left the kitchen, to return with Gene.

"Sare, it's okay," her husband said. He looked just as worried as Jason. "You don't have to open it."

Sarah turned it over. There was one word written on the back, in Ben's haphazard scrawl.

_please_

" _Fer thammag_ ," she said under her breath. She was not proof against that simple plea, and Ben knew it.

"Don't open it," Jason said. "Don't, Mom. He wants to hurt you."

"Sarah Jane." When she looked up at Gene, he went on. "Call Prof."

"But he's busy-"

"Just do it."

Five minutes later she sat in the office with the letter propped up on the computer keyboard and phone in hand. She felt ridiculous, but she also knew Gene was right-and maybe Jason too.

"Sarah?" Prof sounded harassed. "How are you, dear girl?"

"I-I'm fine. How are you?" She winced at the inanity of the question.

"Run off my feet, but I've got a minute or two. What's happened?" Prof's tone sharpened. "Are you all right?"

"I got a letter. From Ben."

"I see," Prof said after a moment of silence. "Very well. If you would give me ten minutes to get a few things put in order here at work, I can give you about fifteen minutes now, and a longer session later on, if you're agreeable. Have you opened it?"

"No, Gene . . . he asked me to call you first." Sarah sighed. "Maybe I should just throw it away."

"Ten minutes," Prof said. "You just sit tight. I'll ring you in mere moments." And he was gone.

Jason came in first. He perched in the extra chair and watched her, his dark eyes full of concern. "What did he tell you to do?"

"Wait for him to call back. He's in the middle of getting things ready for the supper rush." Sarah stood up, unable to sit still. "I should get our supper started-"

" _Mom_. It’s okay, I'll make it tonight." Jason watched her pace. "We've got a bunch of leftovers. We can have cottage pie."

Sarah felt a faint surprise. "You know how to make that?"

"Duh. I made it two weeks ago, remember? Jeez, calm down. You're gonna have a stroke." The derision in her son's voice conjured up a faint amusement. He peered at the letter. "Why do you think he wrote to you?"

Sarah walked to the window. She looked out over their yard, the thick green grass ornamented with little clusters of fallen leaves, their colors bright as jewels. "I don't know." She hated to admit it, because not to know scared her.

"Has he ever written before?"

"No." She watched a leaf move in a slow, lazy spiral past the glass. "He's never been much for communication of any kind." The phone rang and she jumped. Her hands shook as she took the call.

"All right there, my dear girl?" Sarah swallowed and nodded, remembered he couldn't see her.

"Yeah, I'm-I'm here."

"Excellent. Now listen to me carefully, Sarah Jane. I would like you to ask Gene to sit with you. Then you'll open the letter, and if you will, please read it to me."

"I'll get Dad." Jason was gone before she could even open her mouth.

"I believe that was the estimable Jason speaking just now," Prof said. "I shall leave it up to you whether you allow him to stay, but in my humble opinion he's quite old enough to listen and perhaps even add his own thoughts. An intelligent and perceptive young man, is our Jason."

"Yes . . . agreed." Sarah gathered her thoughts as Jason returned with Gene. The older man moved the extra office chair next to Sarah's, so he was on her right, and Jason was on her left.

"Very well. When you're ready, Sarah."

She set down the receiver and put it on speaker, picked up the letter and slowly opened it. It contained a single sheet of notebook paper. She unfolded it, cleared her throat, and read.

_Sarah,_

_first off if you are readin this thank you. you got no reson 2 trust me after everthing that went on before so it meens alot. I wont mess aron just tell you I got cancer. Doc says liver & reel bad. he says a year but more lik 4 or 5 months I think._

Sarah stopped, the breath shocked out of her for the second time that day. Gene took her hand. She returned his hold, comforted by his touch.

"Sarah, I'm so sorry." Prof's voice was gentle. "Take your time."

It took her a couple of deep breaths, but eventually she continued.

_this will sond dum but after he told me I got thinkin abt you & everthing that happin at our plase when we was kids & Gramma took you. knowin your goina die makes things so clere & I ben so mean wen all you was was good 2 me. I was wrong 2 hurt you Sare you dint desserve none of it. you tried 2 help & ther was nothin you cold do. Sare I'm sorry. that don't mean nothin I know but its all I got 2 give. dont come out her 2 see me. just when Matt tels you Im gone, sing for me. I alwas loved herin you you sing. have a wake lik we done for uncle Joe & see me into the dirt the old way. pore som whiskey out for me to so Gramma wil be mad haha!_

_I hope you are hapy with yor man & have a good live. you are a good persin Sare never let anyon tel you diffrent. if you want 2 writ back ok. if not I unerstan. the hospes doc says ok for you 2 cal but I dont ask you for that writ is enuf if you want 2 do that._

_Ben_

Sarah held the paper. In the knotted scrawl she saw her brother struggle to put the words on paper-words difficult not only to write, but to compose.

Prof broke the silence first. "My beautiful girl, you'll forgive me for truthful speaking," he said, his tone mild, "but it seems within this terrible tragedy, you've just been handed a great gift."

"A _gift_?" Jason sat up a bit. His dark eyes held anger, and confusion. "What do you mean?"

"He means my brother wants to talk to me for the first time since we were kids," Sarah said, and put the letter on the desk. She rested her hand on Jason's back and gave Gene's hand a squeeze. "It is a gift."

"Bought at a terrible price, but the most precious things often cost all," Prof said. "I won't ask you what you'll do because you need time to think about it, but I will request you not make any hasty decisions, dear girl."

"I won't." The words surprised her, but she meant them all the same. "Don't worry. I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Well done, Sarah Jane. Must dash, but shall I request you call me later tonight? I have the distinct feeling you'll be burning the midnight oil."

"Late is fine." Sarah rubbed Jason's shoulder. "We'll be celebrating the harvest tonight. I wish you could be here with us."

"As do I, my darling girl. Truth to tell, the only way I'll be celebrating is by cooking up the copious bounty we have here in the kitchen, but I'll be with you in spirit at least. Ta for now, my love."

The office was quiet after the call ended. Jason moved closer and leaned his head against Sarah's shoulder. "You really aren't going to Oklahoma?" he asked.

"No, sweetheart." It was the truth; she knew it was the right decision. "Ben and I have a lot to talk about, but we can do it on the phone. There's no need to meet face-to-face now, he said so himself. Besides," she slipped her arm around her boy and gave him a hug, "my family needs me right here." She smiled just a little when Gene brushed a kiss over her cheek.

They ended up in the back yard as planned, with scraps of wood and sticks stacked in the fire pit ready to burn. "Let's get this party started," Gene said. "I'd be happy with dogs, beer and potato chips tonight."

"And s'mores," Jason said. He dumped another load of sticks by the pit. As he straightened he shaded his eyes against the sunset. "House and Roz are coming over," he said. Sarah turned to look. Sure enough, the Houses were on their way. They both carried food containers. Hellboy followed behind them, tail held high.

"Well, how about that," Gene said, all innocence. Sarah swung her gaze to his. He gave her a sweet smile. "We aren't the only ones who like a big fat harvest moon for spoonin'."

"What's spoonin'?" Jason wanted to know. Sarah laughed a little and shook her head.

"You get to tell him," she informed Gene, and went to meet her oldest boy and his wife. Greg paused as she came to them.

"You can’t ever just lead a boring little life, can you," he said, but the concern in his vivid eyes belied his harsh tone. Roz handed her containers to Greg, came forward and enveloped Sarah in a gentle hug. When she stepped back she smiled, but her gaze held worry and affection in equal amounts, just as Greg's did.

"Gene said you needed a little spoiling tonight. He didn't say what happened, just that you had some upsetting news. So we thought we'd bring over dinner and spend some time with you, if that's okay."

"It's more than okay." Sarah felt her sadness slip away. It wouldn't be gone for long, but a reprieve, however short, was welcome. "We're building a bonfire since it's a full harvest moon tonight."

"Perfect. We brought some Italian sausages and stuff to make kabobs," Roz said. "We heard a rumor you're doing s'mores, so there's bananas and ice cream to make splits."

"There better be copious amounts of alcohol too," Greg said, and went into the back room. Sarah gave Roz a pat and followed him into the house. As she entered the kitchen he gave her a quick glance. "So what the hell's going on?" He dumped the containers on the counter, made his way to the fridge and extracted a beer. "Gunney said you got a letter from Okie."

"My brother Ben has liver cancer," Sarah said. Greg popped the top off the bottle and took a long swallow. He watched her, his gaze keen and searching.

"You're headed out tomorrow then."

She shook her head. "Nope."

Greg’s eyes widened. “Nope?”

“Nope.” Sarah leaned against the counter. “He doesn’t want a face-to-face meeting and neither do I. Too much . . .” She tried to find the words. “Too much,” she said finally. “Distance is better for both of us.”

Greg said nothing right away. At last he gave a single nod. “Good for you.”

“Yeah. Thanks. At least he . . . he told me.” Sarah glanced out the window as music began to play on the back porch. She smiled as she recognized the tune.

_come a little bit closer_

_hear what I have to say_

_just like children sleepin’_

_we could dream this night away_

“I think your main squeeze wants some quality time.” Greg raised one brow in a mock leer. Sarah nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, to find her husband in the shadows. Just beyond his shoulder the moon began its slow climb into the darkening sky, yellow as butter above the new bonfire.

_but there’s a full moon risin’_

_let’s go dancin’ in the light_

_we know where the music’s playin’_

_let’s go out and feel the night_

Sarah moved into his arms and accepted his kiss, returned it as they stood together in the soft light. After a few moments they began to move together slowly as the music flowed around them, sweet and full.

_because I'm still in love with you_

_I want to see you dance again_

_because I'm still in love with you_

_on this harvest moon_

Sarah rested her head on Gene’s shoulder and closed her eyes. Sorrow retreated further into the shadows as strong, lean arms held her with tenderness. He sang with the verse, his soft voice true and clear.

_when we were strangers_

_I watched you from afar_

_when we were lovers_

_I loved you with all my heart_

She listened, her own heart open, glad of the velvet night and the man who loved her in spite of everything she’d done to push him away.

_but now it's gettin' late_

_and the moon is climbin' high_

_I want to celebrate_

_see it shinin' in your eye_

She joined him on the last chorus, to sing harmony to the melody.

_because I'm still in love with you_

_I want to see you dance again_

_because I'm still in love with you_

_on this harvest moon_

“Meet me upstairs later tonight?” Gene said as the song ended. Sarah laughed softly.

“It’s a date.” She kissed him, a salute they both enjoyed until a loud stage cough broke their reverie.

“Get a room,” Greg said, and strode by them with a platter of sausages and vegetables, and his rare, one-sided smile plastered on his face. Just beyond him Sarah caught a glimpse of Jason, who stood on the other side of the fire with a bundle of sticks tucked under his arm. It was clear he’d watched them dance. The expression on his face made her heart break: happiness, bewilderment, and a longing so intense it was almost a living thing. She doubted he was aware of it, not yet anyway. But someday soon . . . She made a quick wish, something like a mother’s prayer probably, though she’d never had any experience with them.

 _Let his first love be kind, and able to accept him for who he is._ Even as she thought it, the words of another song came to her.

“You can add up the parts/but you won't have the sum,” she said softly to the wavering light,

_you can strike up the march,_

_there is no drum_

_every heart every heart_

_to love will come_

_but like a refugee_

_ring the bells that still can ring_

_forget your perfect offering_

_there is a crack a crack in everything--_

“That's how the light gets in,” Gene said, and smiled down at her. He glanced at Jason, then back at her. His gaze held comprehension and love in equal measure. “I want what we have for our boy too.”

Sarah slipped her arm around Gene’s waist. “Here’s to future harvests,” she said, and walked with him to the fire, where the rest of her family waited.

_‘Harvest Moon’, Neil Young_

_‘Anthem,’ Leonard Cohen_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to err on the side of caution, I'm putting a trigger warning here for any veterans or active duty military personnel who might possibly be reading this story. I am not a vet myself, but have taken memories told to me by veterans of various wars and police actions, modified them a bit to preserve anonymity, and given them to Gene. While not terribly graphic, they could cause flashbacks.

_September 24th_

"So, where were we?" Gene tried to find some enthusiasm for the task ahead, but none was forthcoming.

"You were about to tell me why you didn't take a firearm with you when you went in rescue of your family." Gordon's words were gentle but his tone was unbending.

Gene sat back in his chair. "Yeah, I was." He wanted to do anything but that, of course.

"Perhaps you might ease into things if you gave me a bit of background first."

"You mean, the reason why I didn't take the gun." Gene sighed and passed a hand over his face. He wasn't surprised to find sweat on his fingers.

"Yes, that would do nicely," Gordon said without any irony. "Take your time, my boy."

"Okay." Gene stared out the window at the yard and the meadow beyond. Such a peaceful scene . . . "When I was on the second tour in Somalia, we had to carry all the time. To state the obvious, it wasn't safe to be without some way to defend yourself, and since the rebels were armed as well as we were, maybe better at times, we just made it a rule to keep a firearm handy." He paused, reluctant to continue.

"So you had a gun with you constantly. That had to be difficult," Gordon said quietly.

"You get used to it. Humans can get used to almost any damn thing if you give them enough time and incentive. We had plenty of both." Gene swallowed on a dry throat. "Anyway, we always had kids around, looking for handouts. Some of them were old enough to bum smokes although we weren't supposed to give them any. But children see a lot of things adults don't. We . . . we didn't use them as informants exactly, but if something was goin' on or there was trouble coming, they'd usually tell us if we gave 'em a big enough bribe. A couple of the guys complained about it, but most of us didn't mind giving them food." Gene closed his eyes. "Sometimes we'd stay long enough to make friends just a little." He sighed softly. "It was a mistake to do that. The rebels used the kids to get to us. They'd . . . they'd find all kinds of methods to coerce them or make them think we were the bad guys. There are days when I'm convinced we were, and didn't know it."

"I've never served in the military," Gordon said after a brief silence, "but I've worked with other people who have done so, and that feeling of doubt is far more common than you'd think."

"Doesn't surprise me," Gene said. He shifted a little. "So . . . so the upshot of all this was a lot of confusion. We didn't trust the kids fully, but we depended on them for information. The kids saw us as a source of good things, but they watched us wipe out their families and their tribes in firefights with the rebels. It was a mess, and some bad things happened because of it." He swallowed.

"And one of those bad things happened to you," Gordon said softly.

"I . . . I killed a child." It was out, at long last. He couldn't believe he'd actually told someone else who hadn't been there; somewhere in the back of his head he’d decided never . . . but never is a long time. "He was a little younger than Jason was when he first came to us, eleven maybe. It was always hard to figure out their real ages because they were all so small from not getting enough to eat . . ." His hands shook. "I'm gonna put the phone on speaker if that's okay."

"My dear boy, do whatever you wish to make things more comfortable for yourself." Gordon spoke gently. "When you're ready, please tell me what happened."

It took Gene a minute or two to gather his courage. "We were out on patrol. There were six of us. We were checking out the path behind some little village that was a hot spot for fighting because it had a reliable source of water. Some kids came up like they always did. We tried to get them to leave but they stuck to us, and that made me nervous because most of the time they didn't do it unless they were marking us for someone." His voice cracked. He took a swallow of beer, grateful for the clean bitter taste. "We . . . we had to check the huts, fuck knows we didn't want to do it but we had to. So my buddy and I went into the first one, scared shitless it was booby-trapped or someone was waiting inside to blow our damn heads off. We'd . . . we'd just gone in when-when one of the kids-he-he just burst through the door and he was yelling-and I-" He swallowed and felt his stomach clench. "I shot him. It was pure reflex, didn't even think about it. Just shot him right in the head." For a moment he was there once more, and watched the lifeless body fall to the dry ground. His gut tightened at the memory of dark blood as it soaked into the thirsty earth, hordes of flies already collected to eat their fill.

"What happened after that?" Gordon asked after a time.

"I don't know. Don't . . . don’t remember. I shot the kid, and then we were back at the base and our squad leader was asking questions about what happened. So I told him, and my buddy told him, and the rest of the patrol. He made his report, and that was it."

"But it wasn't all, was it? There's more to it."

"Yeah." Gene took another long swallow of beer. "A few days later, one of the local boys came to me. It was a huge act of courage on his part. He didn't know if we'd decided to kill kids as a matter of course or if I'd take out anyone who saw what happened . . . Anyway, he told me in the worst broken English I've ever heard that he tried to warn his friend not to go into the hut because he'd get shot." Gene watched wind ripple over the dying meadow grasses. "He wanted to make me understand he knew why it happened, and-and he didn't blame me. After he left I felt ten times worse."

"I think I know why, but please tell me in your own words," Gordon said quietly.

"Because even the damn kids expected us to kill them, on purpose or by accident, it didn't matter. They expected it. It was normal. Normal." His voice rose despite his efforts to keep it level. "They all saw us as killing machines. Yeah, sometimes we handed out candy and water and gum and cigarettes, and traded jokes or showed them magic tricks and tried to be friendly, but we also handed out death by the fucking bushel. And the hell of it was, they weren't wrong to see us that way." He wiped tears from his eyes with shaking fingers, ashamed of his weakness. "I didn't want to be a goddamn killing machine. I didn't want to shoot young boys in the head or watch my buddies get shot or have their bodies blown apart. I didn't want to wonder if I'd ever feel anything ever again in my entire life, if I'd be numb forever."

A long silence fell, broken only by the faint sound of the wind as it sighed through the meadow grasses beyond the window. "Now tie it to the recent past, my boy," Gordon said at last. "Tell me how this affected your behavior when Jason's biological father took his child and your wife."

"You mean, tell you how I was a coward." Gene couldn't keep the bitterness out of his words.

"You are the one who knows if it was truly cowardice or something else," Gordon said simply. "I make no such presuppositions. Make the link between the two moments."

"Dammit, I don't _want_ to!"

"Yes, I know. But you'll do it anyway for me, won't you? It's of vital importance as you understand quite well, otherwise I wouldn't ask."

Gene sighed. " _Fuck_." He finished off the beer and set the empty bottle on the desk. "The plain truth is, I was afraid . . ." He stopped. "No, actually I was terrified that if I took a gun, even a handgun, with me to that cabin, I'd-I'd hurt my boy, or Sarah. Stupid, fucking _stupid_. Irrational. Emotional decision, the kind that gets you killed. But I kept thinking about what happened on that goddamn patrol and how-how quick it was, how I just shot that kid . . ."

"You were afraid your reflexes would get the better of you and make a terrible situation infinitely worse." Gordon exhaled slowly. "I don't consider that cowardice, my boy. Given the circumstances and your particular mindset at the time, it's actually a fairly wise course of non-action."

"But it meant I couldn't protect them!" Gene got out of the chair and began to pace. "Both Sarah and Jason got shot because I couldn't take that bastard out the moment I set eyes on him, dammit!"

"You did the best you could at the time-"

"It wasn't good enough! I nearly got my family killed!"

"And yet they're here with you now, not six feet under," Gordon said, unperturbed by Gene's raised voice. "Perhaps you could have done things in a way that might have prevented the kidnapper from harming anyone, but you can mull over variables and possibilities till the proverbial cows come home, and never find a workable solution."

Gene thought about that. "So what are you saying exactly?"

"Well, it's quite clear, isn't it? The course of action you chose has consequences, both good and bad. You'll have to live with the memory of them."

"I don't know if I can," Gene said. He swallowed down his misery and impotent fury at the knowledge. "It keeps me awake at night, sometimes."

"And what does your estimable wife say when she finds you watching the clock at some small hour of the morning?" Gordon wanted to know. "Does she castigate you for not choosing a perfect scenario where everyone but the villain comes out whole and healthy, and you all arrive home in a blaze of glory? Or does she tell you she loves you because you came to your family's rescue and brought them out of harm?"

"You've got inside information."

"I shan't say yea or nay to that. Confidentiality _et cetera, ad infinitum_ , as you well know. But the question still stands: does Sarah curse you for what you did, or does she thank you?"

"She . . . she thanks me," Gene said with some reluctance.

"And there you have your answer, Eugene. Every choice has a shadow side, with unintended results. Decisions are not as simple as we like to believe. While some answers are easy or plain, many others are more obscure and leave us wondering if we're as good as we think we are."

"Well maybe that's the problem." Gene sat down and wished he had another beer at hand. "I'm not good."

"Ah." Gordon didn't sound surprised. "I've been wondering when we'd get to this topic."

"If we're gonna dive into the depths I need another brew," Gene said. "Five minute break?"

"An excellent suggestion. I could use a second cuppa."

The kitchen was quiet; Jason was at Lou's for another hour, and Sarah was spending time with Roz at the House's, to give him some privacy. Gene took a beer from the fridge, popped the top and downed a quick slug. He was surprised to find his hands still shook. He ran the cold bottle over his forehead; the mild shock made him feel the beat of his heart, his breath as it rattled in his chest. Condensation ran down his cheek, a fat cold drop. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, and returned to the office.

"I'm back," he said, and took the chair.

"Very good. Settled in then. Now let's tackle the beast lurking in murky waters." Gordon made a slurping sound. "Ah, fresh tea. Nectar of the gods, though not quite on the same level as the concoction you're drinking."

"You have my promise I won't get drunk while I'm talking to you," Gene said, and was reassured by Gordon's quiet chuckle.

"Fair enough. Now if I recall correctly, we were about to discuss why you think you're not good."

"This isn't a thinkin' problem. I _know_ it." Gene took a defiant slug of beer. "I ain't good, and nothin' anyone says will ever convince me otherwise."

"Why?" The quiet question hung between them.

"'No reason to get excited, the thief he kindly spoke,'" Gene said at last. "There are many here among us/who feel that life is but a joke.'"

"'But you and I, we've been through that, and this is not our fate/so let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late,'" Gordon finished the verse.

"Should have known better than to quote Dylan to a former rock star."

"Former? _Former?_ I'll have you know my albums still enjoy a modicum of success in sales," Gordon said. "But we digress, dear boy. Do you truly believe life is nothing more than a jest of the gods?"

Gene sighed and took a swallow of beer. "Sometimes, yeah. Sometimes . . . it feels like nothing makes any sense. I'll be with Sare and our boy, everything just fine, life's good, and then . . . it's like I shouldn't be here, I'm . . . I'm not . . ."

"Not good enough," Gordon prompted.

"Not good. Period." Gene felt the darkness inside, patient, silent. "My wife, my son, they know some of me, but they don't know . . . they've never seen the worst. What I've done, who I've hurt . . . the ones I killed."

"Did you keep track of how many people you killed during your enlistment?"

"Yeah. It wasn't that many, compared to the numbers other people racked up. Six, though there were probably more. I couldn't keep track of every fuckin' round. All but one were civilians, including the boy." He saw them all, in his mind's eye.

"You must understand on at least an intellectual level that civilian casualties have been an unavoidable outcome in every war ever waged," Gordon said. "But more than just those four deaths has you convinced you're not good." Gene said nothing. "Ah, thought so. Might as well bring it all out now, my boy. In for a penny, in for a pound."

"I don't know if I can explain." Gene closed his eyes as apprehension drew a cold finger down his spine.

"Start with one word, and let the rest follow."

Gene drew a deep breath. He tasted the hops and malt on his tongue, felt the warm leather of the office chair cradling him. "I . . . I brought it on myself."

"You mean you signed up voluntarily to enter the military," Gordon said. "Let me ask you this: were you fully aware of the ramifications of that action?"

"I knew what it meant. My family's full of jarheads." Gene slugged some beer. "I heard all the stories, the ones they tell after the women and kids have gone to bed."

"How old were you?"

"Started when I was six. By the time I graduated from high school it was pretty clear I'd be following in everyone's footsteps."

"Why?"

Gene sighed. "It was expected. I knew I'd go to college eventually, but . . ." He tipped his head back.

"That doesn't sound voluntary to me. It sounds like you were pushed into a course of action for which you had no great liking."

". . . yes." He'd never admitted it to anyone, never said it out loud, but he'd struggled with the decision, agonized over it, for months. "I never liked killing anything. When we'd go hunting . . . I knew we needed the venison and rabbits to get through the winter, but sometimes someone would shoot an animal just to do it and it . . . it sickened me."

"You're a healer. You know more than most how precious is life." Gordon's quiet voice held understanding.

"But even knowing that, I deliberately chose enlistment with the understanding that I would likely be asked to kill people at some point. Is that the sign of a good person, a _healer_?" The darkness spilled out now, bitter, acidic. "I'd say no."

Gordon didn't answer right away. "I'm going to request you do something," he said finally. "It's simple and you may accomplish it in your own time, though I'd like it completed before we talk again next week."

Gene's fingers tightened on the bottle. "What is it?" he asked, wary of what lay ahead.

"I would like you to write a letter to the boy you killed."

Thirty minutes later, Gene sat in the barn with guitar in hand. He paused in mid-strum to pick up the fresh beer he'd just cracked, and took a long, slow sip. He lingered on the edge of a respectable buzz, not quite tipped in yet, but on the way. When the door opened he didn't bother to look; he knew who it was.

"Getting a head start. That's the spirit." Greg came in, keyboard case in hand. He wore a thick jacket with the collar turned up against the chill of the evening. He gave Gene a quick, hard stare, then set the keyboard case on the bed and dumped his jacket next to it. Without another word he went to the cube fridge and extracted a beer, popped the cap, took a swallow. He moved back to the chair by the keyboard stand, sat down. "Tough session," he said, but it was not in commiseration; it was an inquiry.

"Don't wanna talk," Gene said. "Tired of talkin'. Let's just . . . just play. Okay?"

After a moment Greg gave a single nod. "'kay."

Once the keyboard was set up they noodled around, played bits and pieces as they warmed up. Greg followed his lead, head bowed a little. Now and then he continued the bass line with his left hand while he took a swallow of beer. It was enough to keep things moving, so Gene didn't care. When the song formed under his hands he went with it, felt the music turn harder, colder, and welcomed the change. He'd had enough of hurting.

_hey Joe_

_where you goin' with that gun in your hand_

As he played he saw himself walk down the dry roadbed with his buddies, dusty, tired but watching, always watching, scared under the casual talk and bullshit, tense, heart rate and respiration elevated-'alert alive', his dad and uncles always said. He still woke up from dreams about patrols with his breath banging in and out of his chest and sweat beaded on his skin.

_hey Joe_

_I heard you shot your woman down_

He stopped. "Shit," he said under his breath. "Goddammit." On a wave of pain he closed his eyes. "I didn't shoot her, dammit. I didn't shoot them. I didn't!"

"Gene." Greg said his name quietly. "What the _fuck_. If you're trying to freak me out, it's working."

Gene draped his arms over the guitar and sat back. He stared into the rafters above him, the marks of the adze used to shape the logs still visible in the old wood. "Life sucks dick," he said after a while.

"Wow, there’s some breaking news. It only took you forty-odd years to figure it out. Fucking genius." Greg took another long swallow of beer. "Your little _tete a tete_ with the Brit brought this on, no doubt."

"It wasn't anything I didn't know already, so get off my damn back." Gene picked up his beer, finished it and contemplated the empty bottle. "I got a good woman and kid, got a good life. And I don't deserve none of it."

"Oh, here we go," Greg said. His sardonic tone stung. "I'm sure you're gonna enlighten me whether I want you to or not."

"Don't plan to enlighten you or anyone else." Gene got up and set the guitar aside, took the bottle to the box where they put the empties, and set it inside. "Singh and Jay will be here in a few minutes. Let's get out the playlist."

Greg said nothing, but Gene felt the other man watch him through the practice session. It was a good one; they'd played together long enough now to get into the songs with ease. The music didn't help tonight, though. He couldn't open to it.

They were nearly at the end when Gene said "I got a request." He didn't look at the others. "You guys know 'Copperhead Road'. Let's play it."

"Any particular reason?" Greg wanted to know. Gene strummed a chord.

"Because I fucking want to play it." He saw the dust rise into the parched air, heat waves shimmer in the distance as they walked patrol.

"Okay," Jay said after a moment's silence. "I'll kick it off, if you take the vocals."

_I volunteered for the Army on my birthday_

_they draft the white trash first 'round here anyway_

_I done two tours of duty in Vietnam_

_and I came home with a brand new plan_

He heard other voices rise around his as he sang-youthful voices, tuneless for the most part, with laughter, pain, buried fear and rage all mixed together, a potent and toxic brew.

_I learned a thing or two from Charlie don't you know_

_you better stay away from Copperhead Road_

He’d planned to walk back to the house alone, but Greg joined him when he left the barn.

“I don’t wanna talk about jack shit,” Gene said, hunched inside his coat as the song still echoed in his head. Greg shrugged, the movement just visible.

“Don’t wanna talk.”

“Okay then.”

“Whatever.”

They set off together down the road. Gene watched Greg stride along beside him, his long legs moving with ease. _You helped him find healing_ , a little voice whispered deep inside. He looked away.

“Big fuckin’ deal,” he muttered under his breath.

“You said you didn’t wanna talk,” Greg pointed out.

“I’m not.”

Gene could almost hear Greg’s eyes roll in his head. “Whatever.”

As they reached the access path to the back yard Gene saw someone was home-probably both Sarah and Jason by this time. Greg paused, ready to head to his own house.

“If I’d thought you were anything like my old man when we first met, I wouldn’t have worked with you.” His grin flashed white in the faint reflective light. “Suck it up, you fuckin’ buttercup.” And he was gone, his tall figure disappeared into the darkness. Gene felt a half-smile tug at his lips. He stared at the scene before him and gripped the handle of the guitar case tight in his fingers. This was his home, one he and Sare had created with hard work, sweat, laughter and love; now they shared it with the son they never thought to have, a treasure so precious he had no words for it. There were many good memories here, ones he'd hoped would silence the other, older ones he carried inside him. But it didn't work that way, and all the wishing in the world wouldn't change things.

"Write the letter, my dear boy," Prof had said. Gene blew out a breath, lifted his gaze to the stars overhead, glittering in the tree branches.

"Dammit," he said under his breath, and moved forward into the light.

_'All Along the Watchtower', Bob Dylan_

_'Hey Joe', traditional (Jimi Hendrix version)_

_'Copperhead Road', Steve Earle_


	6. Chapter 6

_October 4th_

Greg sits on the bed and stares down at his feet. They look perfectly ordinary, long and skinny, toes slightly curled—nothing wrong at that end of things. What interests him more is the tickle at the back of his throat. It's more pronounced when he bows his head slightly this way. It is a sure sign that he's been infected with a virus of some kind—probably that nasty head cold that's made the rounds lately.

He is not happy about this event. While it has one slightly positive aspect--he won't be able to go to work for at least two weeks, since his patients are immuno-compromised--that means he'll be stuck at home while forced to endure video conferences and consultations by phone. And that also means the spectre of boredom will haunt him for days.

"What's wrong?" Roz stands in the doorway to the bedroom. She comes in when he doesn't answer, and sits next to him. "You're sick."

" _Duh_. You and Goldman gave it to me," he growls, and chokes when the tickle flares into a violent urge to cough and sneeze at the same time. Without a word Roz gets up and goes to the kitchen, to return with a cup of water. When she offers it he doesn't take it. "Go to work and stop hovering."

"Do you want me to call you in?" She ignores his weak attempt at provocation. "I can do that while you take a shower. You'll feel better."

His retort is swallowed up in a tremendous sneeze. He can already feel his sinuses swell. Roz pats his shoulder in a gentle commiseration he finds infuriating, and picks up the phone. "Take a shower," she says again. "I'll make you some breakfast before I go out."

"Not hungry," he mutters, but gets up to do as she suggests.

The hot water feels good on his skin. He lets it pour over him as he leans into the spray, aware of a deep ache in his muscles and joints, and a lurking, disordered anxiety behind his thoughts. He can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he's gotten sick in his lifetime. He has his mother's strong constitution—apparently his father’s too—and a decent immune system. When a virus does get past his defenses, it's thoroughly miserable experience. He does not look forward to the next fourteen days.

Eventually he shambles into the kitchen in a clean tee shirt, sweats and his flannel robe, to find Roz making tea. Any faint feelings of goodwill he's managed to dredge up vanish. "I am NOT drinking that crap," he snaps. "Forget it. No tea, no buttered toast, no poached eggs!"

Roz fills the teapot with just-boiled water. "Coffee will upset your stomach. So will eating heavy foods. I've already made jello and Sarah's bringing over some soup later, so you might as well get used to the idea that for the next few days, you'll be eating light."

"I'm not five years old!"

She takes the kettle to the stove and turns to face him, arms folded. "Could have fooled me." Her tone is quiet but he hears mild exasperation behind it--and just that fast his mother stands there as she wipes her hands on a tea towel and looks harassed.

_("You must do as I say, Gregory. I don't have time to waste babying you when your father is coming home tomorrow and this house still needs a complete cleaning. You should work hard on getting better right away, and that means you do as I tell you. Do you understand?")_

" _Amante_ ," Roz says, and comes over to sit next to him, as she did in the bedroom. "If you really don't want tea, there's the sports drink in the fridge. I can pick up more on the way home from work."

"Coffee," he says. He's being a pain, he knows it. Roz sighs, but when he looks at her, he can see she really is worried about him. He can’t help but take a little comfort in it despite his best efforts not to.

"It's your funeral," she says, and takes the teapot to the sink, where she pours out the contents and rinses the interior with care. "I won't make it for you, that's on your head. Just don't do in the whole pot, okay? Get some sports drink or water into you-"

"Who's the one with the damn medical degree?" he says, and ruins it with a huge sneeze. Roz grabs the tissue box from the counter and plops it down in front of him.

"Say hello to your new best friend," she says. "I'll see you later. Call me if you need anything," and goes to get her jacket and toolbox and head off to work.

After she's gone the house is quiet. He brews a half-pot of coffee, but the first cup tastes weird and acidic-one of the side effects of a cold he knows well from previous encounters, it messes up his sense of taste early on and takes it away completely toward the end. So he abandons the joe and opts for a sports drink, the purply-grape stuff. It's fairly awful but at least it doesn't give him indigestion. He fries an egg and reheats some sausage links, eats a few bites, and feels the food sit in his stomach like concrete. So much for that idea too. Muttering under his breath, he dumps everything in the sink, takes his drink and the tissues, and goes into the living room to settle on the couch.

The next hour is an agony of _ennui_. After talking with McMurphy and Singh about tests and a few mundane matters, he turns on the tv and goes through the channels. There's nothing on--morning news and talk, reruns of _Charmed_ and _Perry Mason_ , old movies. Even a quick troll of the Science Channel and NatGeo reveals nothing of interest. He checks On Demand and pay per view; zilch there too. And when he tries to play one of his handheld games, he can’t seem to concentrate. There’s no way he can sit in front of the computer either, he’s too achy and sore. So he puts on ESPN for lack of anything better to do, and lies under the soft throw and feels sorry for himself.

About an hour into this misery Greg hears a knock at the back door, and Sarah's cheerful voice. "It's just me, I'm coming in!" He rouses himself to sit up as she enters the kitchen. "Man, it's blowin’ out there!" The day is overcast and gloomy, with cold rain and fallen leaves flung around by fitful gusts of chill, damp wind. After a moment Sarah appears in the doorway. She is a charming sight with color in her cheeks and carroty curls all over the place under her jacket hood. "How's the patient?" she wants to know.

"Fucking _peachy_ ," he snarls, unwilling to admit he’s glad to see her. Sarah chuckles.

"Yeah, thought so. Brought you some good stuff to keep you entertained. I can stay for the day too, if you like."

The thought cheers him up a bit, an effect he puts down to his rising temperature. Still, of course he can't give in so easily. "I don't need company," he informs her, "and if you didn't bring booze, porn and smokes I'm not interested."

"I brought nothing of the kind, as well you know," she says, unfazed by his crankiness. "There's hot homemade chicken soup, some excellent non-fiction titles culled from the shelves at the library, and a selection of great movies. And I'm making you tea." She disappears into the kitchen. Greg sits there, torn between the hard line and his curiosity. Curiosity wins out, of course. When he enters the kitchen, Sarah has just poured the contents of a large container of chicken soup into the slow cooker.

"We'll leave it on low and you can dip into it anytime you like," she says, and puts the lid on the cooker, then goes to the stove to set the kettle to boil. "I know you don’t want to hear it, but tea is the best thing for you right now."

"Did I ask for any of this?" he demands. "Do you really have so much of nothing to do that you're reduced to coming over here to harass me?"

"I care about you," she says simply. "You're sick and could use a little attention. Since Roz is working, I thought I'd offer my services as foster mom until she comes home." She gives him a glance and smiles a little. "Go curl up on the couch, I'll bring everything out to you."

He’s looked through the movie selection for the second time when she comes in with a tray. Hellboy follows her; Greg heard Sarah let him in earlier.

“Breakfast,” Sarah announces with vile cheerfulness. There’s a bowl of soup, a small stack of buttered toast, and a steaming cup of tea with lemon wedges, honey and to his surprise and interest, what looks like a shot of whiskey. Sarah sets the tray on the table. “Tea first,” she says cheerfully, and picks up a lemon wedge. The Heebster climbs onto the back of the couch and settles in near Greg’s head, then proceeds to take a bath, hind leg high in the air.

“I’m not allowed to decide for myself?” Greg wants to know.

“Nope. You’re feeling lousy and full of self-pity and in a thoroughly bad mood as a result, so I’m making decisions for you.” She squeezes fresh lemon juice into the tea, adds a generous dollop of honey, and dumps in the shot. A few stirs and she hands it to him. “Give that a try.”

He doesn’t take the cup. “Dosing me with alcohol . . . _nice_.”

“Oh, shut up. You’d be drinking beer right now if you could, so don’t get all self-righteous on me,” she says. “Give it a taste.”

“This is some concoction your grandmother thought up, isn’t it?” he wants to know.

“It’s an ancient Celtic tradition to drink hot tea and whiskey punch when you’re ill.” She sets the cup down in front of him. “ _Try_ it. It’s good.”

He eyes her with suspicion. She offers him a sunny smile, her own brand of gentle mockery, but her gaze holds worry and affection in equal amounts. So he picks up the cup, sniffs it, and takes a little sip. A lovely blend of astringent black tea, fresh lemon, wildflower honey and good Glenfiddich whiskey hits his tongue. Even with his sense of taste distorted by the oncoming cold, he likes it. It’s sweet and tart and smoky all at once, and it makes his scratchy throat feel better immediately.

“Hah,” Sarah says, and takes a slice of toast. She has her own cup of tea, _sans accoutrements_. “Told you.”

“Told you,” he mocks, but his heart isn’t in it. He drinks the tea and manages some toast and soup as well before a wave of tiredness sweeps over him. The next thing he knows Sarah’s taked his temperature with a digital thermometer. It beeps and she checks it.

“Up a little,” she says. “Why not grab a power nap? We can watch a movie together later if you like.”

“You are _cosseting_ me,” he says in accusation. Sarah tilts her head a little and smiles at him.

“Why, yes I am, son,” she says. “Kinda slow on the uptake this morning, aren’t ya?” She takes the empty cup from his hand. “That’s a definite sign you need someone to look after you. Be right back,” and she’s off, to return with some pillows and a blanket. Before he knows it he’s tucked in comfortably.

“Stop it,” he says in automatic protest. “I can take care of myself.”

“Close your eyes,” she says in reply, and despite his best intentions he responds to the mild authority in her voice and does as she says. Later he’ll fight back, but for now he really is tired . . . He drifts off to sleep while Sarah is in the kitchen to wash up dishes. The soft, homely clatter of plates and cookware eases his anxiety for some reason.

When he wakes up hour or so later, Hellboy is curled up at his feet, nose to tail, a black furry lump. Sarah’s settled in the easy chair next to the couch, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose as she peruses some tome or other. He watches her, reluctant to admit he enjoys the intensity of her concentration, the unconscious grace of her small hand as she turns the page. As he lies there the tickle in his throat returns, stronger now, and he can’t hold back the cough. By the time he’s hacked up his lungs, there’s another steaming cup of tea ready for him. This time he doesn’t hesitate. As he sips the hot brew Sarah glances at him over her glasses.

“You might like this,” she says, “check it out,” and she reads a passage to him. It turns out to be a former FBI profiler’s theory on the possible identity of Jack the Ripper. The conclusions are surprisingly logical and well-reasoned, drawn from what little solid evidence is still available on a very cold case. Greg listens with interest, glad to fasten his thoughts onto something, anything that will keep them occupied for a while. He hates having nothing to think about. And though he would never say so to her, it’s pleasant to have Sarah read to him. She knows how to make the words come to life, her soft, clear voice familiar and pleasing.

“So this guy thinks the Ripper was an immigrant,” he says when she’s done. Sarah nods.

“It makes sense. No one would really notice him as unusual or out of place, and he’d probably live in Whitechapel or cheap digs close by, which fits the evidence for killing on home turf.” She flips a page. “I never bought the Duke of Clarence or prominent-physician theories. Too complicated.”

“Occam’s Razor,” Greg says. “How very clever of you.”

“I’ve read a book or two on the subject of serial killers,” Sarah says. Greg manages a weak snort. He knows she has an entire shelf of books dedicated to the subject.

They discuss it a little more, desultory conversation that eases him back into a doze. He drifts in and out of sleep, aware his temp has risen, but not too worried about it. He usually has initial fever and chills with virus-based illnesses. At some point he feels Sarah’s hand on his forehead. He cracks open one eye and peers at her.

“ _Cosseting_ ,” he growls. For answer Sarah lets her hand move down to his cheek.

“Blythe doesn’t seem the type,” she says quietly. There’s no condemnation in her words. “I am, so you’ll just have to put up with it.”

“Your mother wasn’t the type either.” 

“No she wasn’t, and that’s a fact. So now that you and I are both grownups, we can offer a little care to someone we love, or even to ourselves. Nothing wrong with that.” She gives his cheek a light caress, then pats his shoulder gently before she gets to her feet. “Take a look through the movies and choose something you like, we can watch it together. I’ll be right back.”

His worries about a Jane Austen marathon are put to rest by the selections she’s brought over—action, sci-fi and comedy. One of the choices is _Horse Feathers_ , an old favorite of his from childhood; he loved all the early Marx Brothers movies for their cheerful anarchy and surrealism, a delicious, rebellious contrast to the rigid order and humorless discipline of his parents household. He _could_ make her sit through _Blackhawk Down_ or _Star Trek: Into Darkness_ , and she’d be okay with it, but she made him tea with whiskey—not once but twice. That deserves a small reward.

When he hands Sarah the DVD case she gives him a quick look and a slight smile, but says nothing. She just puts it in the player. Soon enough they both chuckle at the familiar humor. When Groucho begins to sing ‘I’m Against It’ Sarah sings with him, her enjoyment plain. She shares several traits in common with Groucho, not the least of which is a capacious sense of and delight in the absurd.

“Five year old,” Greg says.

“That’s good coming from you,” she says, and flashes him a grin. “This song could have been written in your honor.”

“And of course you’d know nothing about being stubborn.”

“I am the Goddess of Sweet Reason,” she says, just to make him laugh, which of course makes him cough too.

They spend the rest of the morning and the afternoon this way. He dozes off now and then, so that it seems like no time at all before Roz stands in the doorway and says “Looks like you two have been making the most of a sick day.” She actually sounds pleased, not disapproving.

“I’ll come over tomorrow for the morning,” Sarah says before she leaves.

“Don’t have to,” Greg points out. “You’ve done your good deed for the week.”

“Good deeds are for Boy Scouts,” she says. “I was never a Boy Scout, though I did date one once. I enjoyed your company today. I hope you did too.”

“You enjoyed forcing your will on a helpless sick man.”

“’Whatever it is, I’m against it’,” Sarah sings, and zips up her jacket. “See you tomorrow, son.”

Roz takes the easy chair when Sarah is gone. To his surprise, she reaches out to clasp his hand in hers.

“It’s just a cold,” Greg says. “You’re both acting like it’s double bronchitis and a temp off the charts or something.”

“Your foster mom likes taking care of you. Let her,” his wife says. “I’m grateful because it means you’re easier to live with, and I don’t have to cater to you too much.” She belies this statement when she leans in and kisses his cheek.

“Icky germs,” he reminds her, and she smiles.

“I’m immune, remember?”

For the remainder of the evening, while they watch tv and she gets him drinks and tissues and a bowl of jello, she reclaims his hand every time she sits down next to him. After a while he allows himself to enjoy it.

 _‘I’m Against It,’ Groucho Marx (from the movie_ Horse Feathers _)_


	7. Chapter 7

_October 14th_

_Dear Sydney,_

_it's been some time since my last letter. I'd say I hope all is well with you, but undoubtedly you're as good as you'll ever be. Let's just say I hope wherever you are, you're enjoying the experience._

_Life here continues on. Everyone and everything is growing, changing. Sometimes I feel like some evolutionary branch doomed to die out, watching all the other organisms move on without me. But that’s just a fancy way of saying I’ve had the occasional wallow in self-pity. They’re short wallows, though, and I feel both disgusted with myself and better at the same time when they’re done, sort of like eating an entire half gallon of double-fudge butter pecan ice cream while watching a chick flick. So no harm, no foul._

_My little brother is calling me today._

Sarah put down her pen and sat back. She picked up her teacup, drained the tepid dregs and sucked the sugar out of the bottom, and made a most regrettable noise in doing so; she could almost hear Prof scold her in just those words.

The morning around her was a quiet one. Jason was out back at work in the garden, to plant garlic and onion sets with the square foot plan they'd decided on. Gene was in town to get his hair cut and pick up supplies for the windows—caulk and weatherstripping, to cut down on drafts. Somewhere off in the distance, a tractor putted and growled—some farmer at work on a crop, or to get things ready for winter. All in all, an unremarkable day off . . . and she knew the task next on her list would change that. Her brother would call in the next few minutes, and she wasn't sure if she was ready.

Gene had offered to sit with her, but she'd declined. She didn't want anyone else in the room when she talked with Ben. If he tried to hurt her she could hang up on him, but she didn't think he would attempt anything like that this time. His letter hadn't been a ruse; his words had held honesty, and regret. She recognized it from her own long and intimate acquaintance with both feelings. With reluctance she picked up her pen once more.

_I’m of two minds about talking with him, Sydney, and that is not just a figure of speech. While the adult psychologist in me knows this will be good for both of us, the young girl isn’t so sure. We grew up in a household full of chaos and pain, and when I tried to escape and take him with me, it didn’t work. He got left behind. He’s hated me ever since._

She set her cup on the desk when the phone rang. The sound shocked her, though she’d been expecting it. Slowly she reached out, picked up the receiver. "H-hello?"

"Sare." Ben sounded wary, and anxious.

"Ben," she said. "How—how are you?"

"Not bad for circlin' the drain." He said it without anger. "Doin' okay today." There was a brief pause. "Thanks for readin' my letter and takin’ my call."

"You're welcome." Sarah took a deep breath. "I'm sorry you're sick."

He sighed, a low, quiet sound. "I deserve it."

"No you don't." She looked out at the sunshine, and Jason bending down to plant a garlic clove. "You had good reasons to be mad, darlin'." The old endearment slipped out before she could stop it. "That doesn’t mean you should be punished. You got hurt in some terrible ways."

"So did everyone else, like you." Ben didn't speak for a moment. "How's your family?"

"They're all right." She wasn't ready to offer personal information, not yet. "Do you have anyone coming out to see you?"

"Matt's been by a coupla times. Still a dick."

A slight smile tugged at Sarah's lips. "Yeah, well. No surprises there."

"That’s true. He always was a prick, some things ain't never gonna change. I don't mind. If he was nice t'me I'd get scared." Ben gave a single chuckle. "He don't know nothin' different. Not like you."

"I'm still a Corbett," she said, not sure whether to be pleased or insulted by his remark. "Mean streak and all."

"Maybe, but you were smart enough to get out while you could."

"I wish you could have come with me. I—I tried, Ben. I tried to get you out of that house." It was a regret she'd lived with for years now, one that visited her in the small hours or at odd moments.

"I know you did. Wouldn't done no good anyway." Ben coughed and winced. "Dammit. Sure could go for a coupla shots and a smoke."

"Grandma Bailey would tan your hide for saying that," Sarah dared to tease just a little.

"Mean old bitch. I bet Satan's got her in charge of whuppin's. Guess I'll find out soon enough." He coughed again. "I'm gettin' tired, sis. We better call it quits for now."

"Okay. Do you-will you call again?"

"Yeah, if you want me to." He sounded wary once more.

"Yes, I want you to." She nodded, though he couldn't see her. "I'm working in the afternoons, but if you leave a message I'll call back."

"You ain't at that nutjob hospital no more?"

Sarah almost laughed. It was as good a description of Mayfield as any she’d heard. "No, I have my own practice now. I-I work with families and older children, mostly."

"That's good. You got a way with kids, Sare. You was always good to me, you knew how to say things so I’d understand." He was silent a moment. "I better go."

"Okay. Ben-" She hesitated. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I'm tryin'. You take care of yourself too, sis."

She sat for a long time after the call was done, her emotions all over the place. Every time she tried to grab hold of some thought or feeling, it slithered out of her grasp. After a while she gave up and went over the brief exchange, sensed the shifts and subtle, unspoken emotions between them. Ben had wanted to say more, but he was as unsure of her as she was of him. Maybe that would change, in time. She wasn’t certain though; they’d both hurt each other deeply over the years, in inadvertent and deliberate ways.

"Thinking up new torments for your patients?" Greg stood in the doorway. While his tone was light and mocking, his gaze was sharp. Sarah looked at him.

"Come on in," she said quietly. He pushed into the office, grabbed Gene's chair and eased into it, propped his feet on the desk and folded his hands over his middle, a process so familiar it almost made Sarah smile.

"What's up?" He watched her carefully.

"You're not at work."

He shrugged. "It's a federal holiday."

"That's your excuse?" Sarah rolled her eyes.

"I don't see you hanging out in your official digs, so no pointing fingers." He glanced at the cordless phone still in her hand. "Who called?"

"Talked to my brother," she said. "As you know perfectly well. Don’t try to deny you’re checking up on me to make sure I’m not freaking out."

Greg tilted his head a bit. "And?"

"We didn't say too much. It was a short call, he got tired fast." She felt an old sorrow settle on her quietly, a soft, familiar weight. "He's not gonna be here much longer. But he . . . he called me 'sis' twice." She closed her eyes for a moment. "Haven't heard that in quite a while. It felt . . . weird. But good too."

"You're sure he's not playing you." Greg shifted a bit. "Never underestimate someone's ability to pull a last fast one."

Sarah considered it. "No," she said finally. "I don't get that sense from him. He might still fight with me, but I don't think he's out for revenge."

Greg shook his head. "Eternal naivete," he said. "But that's not my problem. I'm here to invite you to dinner. Wifey has some hideous recipe she wants to try out on new test subjects. She's tired of poisoning me and the cat."

Sarah eyed his long frame. He’d filled out since he’d started to run on a regular basis; he’d never be muscular, but he wasn’t thin now, just lean. " Hellboy was over for a visit yesterday, all sleek and sassy. You look just about the same as he does."

Greg raised his brows in a mild leer. "Is that an invitation?"

"Considering your name isn't Gene Goldman, I'd say no." She set the phone in its base. "What time?"

"The woman of the house says six-ish. I say bring beer or don't bother." He eased his feet off the desk and stood, stretched a little. "Presumably you're calling the Brit next."

"Yeah, I am." She offered him a smile. "Thanks for coming over, son."

"Enlightened self-interest," he said, but his gaze held concern. "Don't forget the beer."

She called Prof after Greg left. He answered the phone promptly. “Sarah my love, a good morning to you.”

“To you too. How’s your Monday so far?”

“Hard telling. I have only one cuppa inside me and I feel the distinct lack of caffeine most acutely.” He paused. “I take it you’ve spoken with your brother Benjamin.”

“Yes.” Sarah allowed herself to take a little comfort in Gordon’s warm voice. “It . . . it went all right. Kind of.”

“Well, why don’t you give me the particulars and we’ll sort it out together.”

She told him about the brief conversation. “I got the feeling he . . . he wanted to say more, but he doesn’t trust me not to hurt him. I don’t know, maybe I’m projecting, because I felt that way myself.”

“Well, that’s quite possible, and as usual a very astute observation on your part, my dear. You always were quick on the uptake in class.” Sarah heard a distinct slurp from the other side of the conversation. “Ah, nothing like the sugary dregs. One of life’s small delights.”

“So rude,” Sarah said on a mock sigh.

“Bah. You of all people have no room whatsoever to comment, as well you know.” Prof chuckled. “From what you’ve imparted, this first foray into getting re-acquainted went quite well, all things taken into consideration.”

“It did. I just—I can’t help thinking of how his life could have been if I’d gotten him out of that damn house.” Sarah’s good mood evaporated. “He never had a chance.”

“My dear girl, we’ve discussed this at length on several occasions. You persist in using impossible standards as a rod for your own back. Therefore, we’ll go over the facts once more. How old were you when you went to your grandmother?”

“Fourteen. But—“

“But me no buts, Sarah Jane. You are not responsible for the vagaries of your parents and their lack of love and compassion regarding their children. You were a child yourself.” Prof’s tone was stern but gentle. “You did try to save him, but your grandmother wouldn’t allow it. I have always suspected an ulterior motive on her part.”

“You never said anything about this before,” Sarah said slowly. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that Mrs. Bailey knew quite well there is strength in numbers. It’s much easier to control a prisoner, to make them feel powerless and alone, if they’re isolated in their captivity. I believe your grandmother observed you and your brothers for some time, and decided you were the one over whom she could have the most influence. She probably viewed the others as lost souls and not worth her efforts. And they were boys, far more difficult to discipline and control.”

“You—you really think she saw us that way?”

“Not only you. Consider your mother’s behavior. Whatever methods your grandmother used on you, I have absolutely no doubt she practiced them upon your maternal parent first. And you saw first-hand the results.” Prof sighed softly. “Far be it from me to suggest every fucked-up adult is the direct consequence of a parent’s bad judgment. There are plenty of arses on this planet with wonderful mums and dads. But in this case, I believe the correlation is quite clear and fully justified.”

Sarah said nothing for some time, as she took in what he’d said. “So she made sure Ben couldn’t escape, just so she would have me. Because . . . because Mom didn’t turn out the way Grandma decided she should.” A swell of fury filled her. “That miserable _bitch_.”

“Pre- _cisely_. You have at long last placed responsibility with the appropriate party.” Prof sounded pleased. “Well done.”

“Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

“You weren’t ready,” Gordon said simply. “Now when you speak with Benjamin again, you’ll see things from a different perspective. I believe it will open the way for you to find the closeness you’ve been denied for so long, and which you both deserve.”

She sat in silence after the call was done, and looked out at the bright day beyond the window. A few leaves fell past the clear glass, russet and gold, brown and scarlet. The hills beyond the meadow held the first edge of prime color; by the end of the week they’d be in full glory.

 _I wish Ben could see this. I mean really see this, not just pictures._ She wasn’t surprised to find tears in her eyes at the thought. She wiped them away with her fingers, then booted up the computer. She chose a playlist and picked up her pen as the music began to play.

_You would like my analyst, Sydney. He’s a bit of all right, as his people say. I met him in university, when he taught my first class on psychology. Over the years he’s become my mentor and the closest thing to a father I’ll ever have, and I’m blessed to know him. He gave me an insight today that’s changed everything . . . everything. Sometimes I think if humans have any truly useful function, it’s offering insight from outside and objective observation. But then I would say that, since it’s my job description after all. I know you understand._

A tentative knock at the door brought her out of her thoughts. Jason stood in the doorway, still bundled into his jacket and work gloves. “Hey,” he said, clearly uncertain as to his welcome.

“Hey you,” Sarah said, and gave him a smile. “How’s it going?”

“Garden’s done. Are you okay? You’re crying. Did your brother hurt you?” He tried to keep his expression calm, but Sarah could see her son was beside himself with worry.

“Everything’s okay,” she assured him. “I had a good talk with your uncle Ben, and I talked to Prof too. We had a really excellent session. Everything’s cool, no worries.”

Jason shifted a bit, but he still looked anxious. “Well . . . okay.”

“I have an idea,” Sarah went on. “Why don’t we take some vids of the fall color and other things to send to your uncle? Ben would like that.”

That surprised him. “Okay,” he said slowly. “I thought . . . you weren’t gonna let him know too much about us.”

“Let’s just say . . . now I can give my brother something I wanted to give him a long time ago.” Sarah set her pen aside and stood. “Come on, let’s leave a note for Dad and grab the recorder.”

“Dad’s home, he just drove up,” Jason told her.

“Excellent. You get the recorder and we’ll meet you outside.”

Gene had just set an enormous pumpkin on the porch when Sarah came out. She went straight to him and enfolded him in her arms, her cheek against his chest. He returned her embrace without hesitation—the best home she’d ever known, and the only one she ever wanted.

“Everything okay?” he wanted to know. She nodded.

“It’s all good,” she said, and it was.

_everybody needs a place to rest_

_everybody wants to have a home_

_don’t make no difference what nobody says_

_ain’t nobody like to be alone_

_everybody’s got a hungry heart_

_‘Hungry Heart,’ Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band_


	8. Chapter 8

_October 14th_

_as far as my eye can see_

_there are shadows approaching me . . ._

"Hey, you awake?”

Ben woke from a light doze to find a laptop propped on the adjustable table over his bed. He yawned and squinted at it, aware as he always was of the pain that rumbled quietly in his side, subdued but not banished by the narcotics.

"I am now. What's this?" he asked. Slowly he sat up, careful not to tangle his lines. "You finally lettin' me enjoy some decent porn?"

"Yeah, that’ll happen. Someone sent you a video." Holly shook her head but smiled at him as she booted up the computer. She was his usual nurse for weekday evenings. As did the other nurses and staff in the hospice, she treated him like a human being. He still wasn't used to it. "I think it's your sister."

Ben stared at the screen in surprise. " _Sare_? She sent me somethin'?"

"Let's take a look. Do you mind if I watch with you?"

"Nah, 'sokay." He gestured at the bed. "Sit."

Holly perched on the side and opened a browser screen. She clicked on something, and another smaller window opened up. "Here, let's make it bigger." As she did so, Sarah's face filled the monitor. She looked anxious, scared and excited at the same time, her pretty face surrounded with a riot of red curls and framed by the dark green hood of her jacket. She was older of course, with crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, and little threads of grey in her hair, but she’d filled out. That pinched, hungry look was gone, something he’d noticed when she’d come to visit him in jail. “She’s a cutie,” Holly said. Ben nodded.

“Always was a looker.” He watched as Holly started the video.

"Hey Ben," Sarah said, and her soft, sweet voice eased his heart, even as it ached too. "I thought maybe you might like a little tour of our place. The fall color's really good this year, so it seemed like a nice idea to share it with you."

She stepped back, and the view revealed a big meadow and in the distance, hills. Beyond them stood mountains—the real thing. They seemed to stretch on forever. Sarah gestured at them. "Our back yard," she said with a slight smile.

" _Mom_ ," an aggrieved young voice said off-camera. "We don't own any of that."

"So literal-minded." Sarah reached out, took the recorder. "Ben, this is my son Jason."

A teenage boy squinted into the lens with obvious reluctance. He was dark-haired with dark eyes, his features angular and strong. He needed a haircut--unruly black locks fell across his forehead in thick waves. But he was healthy, tall—taller than Sarah, lean and sun-browned, and his clothes were new and clean and a bit small on him; it looked like he’d just gone through a growth spurt. "Hey," Jason said, and wiggled a finger at the camera. The look in those brown eyes said _Isn't my mother a pain in the ass?_ Ben had to chuckle, even though it hurt.

"Oh, for pete’s sake. Stop acting like you're being tortured," Sarah said as she handed the recorder back to the boy. Her laugh was like music, sweet and merry. Now the lens panned slowly past a full cord of firewood, all cross-stacked neatly to air-dry, what appeared to be a sizable garden, and a small patio area with a barbecue grill. "Our back porch and yard," Sarah said. "We'll take you inside a bit later. Right now we're off for a walk. Hey Gene, come on over and introduce yourself."

After a moment a tall man entered the frame. He was dark like the boy, with thick hair cropped short and strong features. He nodded slightly at the camera. "Hey," he said. Sarah came up next to him and slipped an arm around his waist, and Gene did the same with her.

"My husband," Sarah said, and the love and pride rang clear in her voice. "Okay, let's go for a stroll."

They were genuinely happy, that was easy to see. The three of them walked along together through drifts of fallen leaves, and their talk was relaxed, comfortable. Ben felt a lump in his throat as he watched. The boy couldn't possibly be Sarah's, she'd said as much when they'd met during her time in Oklahoma—and yet he was her son as surely as if she'd birthed him. At one point the recorder offered a glimpse of Sarah’s arm around the boy’s shoulders. And he didn't seem to mind, in fact he actually stayed close to her and even hugged her back once. It wasn't done for the camera, Ben could tell. It was just how they were.

They'd stopped, and the recorder's focus point moved to a far hill. Sarah gestured at it. "Just a few miles down that way are apple orchards. We'll go there tomorrow to pick a few bushels and make sauce and pies." She turned to look into the camera. "I wish you could go with us," she said, and looked away, but not soon enough to hide a fleeting expression of sorrow. The sight of it shocked Ben in a way he couldn’t describe. _She actually cares,_ he thought, and struggled to take in the truth of it.

"I bet she's a good cook," Holly said. Ben nodded absently.

"Yeah, she always was." He remembered her in the kitchen at the old house in Tulsa, a skinny, bruised girl in shabby clothes and worn-out sneakers, as she stirred a vast pot of stew made from whatever she could scrounge. "She’s good at takin’ care of people." _But nobody in our family ever let her_ , he thought. _Especially me._

They walked back to the house now. It was possible to see the whole building-an old place, well cared-for and in decent shape. Smoke curled from the chimney, and there were pumpkins on the porch.

“Guess she got the home she always wanted,” Ben said, more to himself than Holly.

“Hey, it’s the Heebster,” Sarah said. She bent down and came up into the frame with a big black cat in her arms. “This is Hellboy, he’s visiting from his home across the lane.” She stroked the cat’s velvet fur. “We share breakfast most mornings, don’t we, pretty boy?” She set him down with care and glanced into the camera. “All those times you called me a witch,” she said, and flashed him a wicked, familiar grin. Ben shook his head, amused.

“Brat.” But he didn’t really mean it. Holly rolled her eyes.

“I can see how you two are related,” she said.

The recorder went with Sarah and her family into the back porch, through a mudroom full of everyday stuff—boots and jackets, gloves and hats, a stack of firewood, a washer and dryer—to a kitchen that looked just as comfortable and lived-in as Ben had expected it would be. He could almost smell the fresh bread and coffee.

“I’m gonna take you into the living room,” Sarah said. She collected the recorder from her son and moved out of the kitchen, past a table with someone’s homework spread out on it, into the most beautiful room Ben had ever seen.

“ _Wow_ ,” Holly said softly. Ben stared at the screen, but in his mind he heard a young girl say _someday I’m gonna live in a treehouse_ , her choked voice full of defiance and pain, and longing. This was as close as anyone could get to that vow and still have their feet firmly on the ground. It looked grand and homey all at the same time. The soft warm colors, the tall windows, the chairs and couch and shelves full of books—it was her dream come to life.

“Someday I’m gonna live in a treehouse,” Sarah said. She set the recorder down on what appeared to be a coffee table, angled it up somewhat and looked into the lens. In her green-grey eyes, so much like his, like Mom’s, he saw the old ache but peace too, for the first time. She sat down on the big couch in front of the fireplace. Warm light flickered over her features.

“I’ll be honest with you,” she said finally. “After . . . after everything that’s happened over the years, it was really hard for me to do this. To—to bring you into our home. You hurt me.” Her soft voice trembled just a little. “You really hurt me badly, Ben. I didn’t want to give you another chance, in case you tried to go after my family somehow. But if we never allowed anyone to find grace . . . well.” She looked down for a moment. "So . . . I wasn't able to give you a good home when you needed it. That was never my responsibility, I get that now finally. But I have the chance to let you share my home now, a little of it anyway. If-if you want to. So-so let me know what you think." After a few moments she reached out and the screen went dark.

"That's a pretty good offer," Holly said in the quiet. Ben was about to reply when the screen opened up again. It wasn't Sarah this time however.

"Ben," Gene said. He was in what looked like an office, with shelves full of reference books behind him. He settled back and stared into the lens. "I'm takin' this opportunity for you and me to have a little man-to-man talk. I won't keep you too long, because what I have to say is real simple. You try to hurt my wife and boy, I'll take you out myself. You won't need to wait for the cancer to do it." There was a matter-of-fact tone in that quiet voice that told Ben the other man meant every word. "Sarah's a good person and she sees the best in just about everyone. It’s one of the reasons why I love her. But you and I, we know better. I'm hopin' you really are looking to make peace. God knows no one else in your damn miserable family's ever offered." He nodded. "I'll be keepin' an eye on things. Don't be stupid." And he was gone. Ben stared at the blank screen. Then he smiled just a little. _She's finally got a good man_ , he thought. Aloud he said to Holly,

"Could you get me that big envelope in the night stand?"

"Sure." She hopped up and retrieved the mailer. As she handed it to him she said "Is what he said true?"

“Yeah. I was hard on Sarah. She didn’t deserve none of it.” He passed a hand over his eyes as exhaustion moved through him like a dark fog. “Nothin’ I can do about that now.” _Except maybe this_ , he thought, and hoped it would be enough of an answer for someone he thought he’d lost years ago. “I’m gonna ask you to do something for me . . .”

_October 18th_

Sarah finished her tea and yawned. She got to her feet, stretched a bit, and took the mug to the sink. It was a cold, cloudy day, fit for nothing better than a good book or a snuggle on the couch with her husband. Unfortunately neither option was available; Gene and Jason were outside to clear the yard of fallen branches and sticks before they raked up leaves. And she had a house to clean, since she’d neglected it all week long.

She went out to get the mail first. It felt good to walk down the drive bundled in her warm jacket. She waved at her men on the way down to the mailbox, and enjoyed the crunch of fallen leaves under her feet.

The delivery was the usual collection of shopping circulars, coupons, bills, some professional correspondence for Gene-and a large padded mailer with an Oklahoma return address. Sarah stared at it as she traveled up the drive. Clearly it was from Ben, but what could it be?

She opened it at the dining table. Her fingers shook as she reached inside the envelope. A folded note emerged first.

_Sare,_

_thanks 4 showin me ur home. U have a good plase & a good famly, Im glad 4 u sis. _

_this was dads. I thot u shud have it now._

_Ben_

The second item in the mailer was a battered old sketchbook, the cover torn and dirty. Sarah turned it over in her hands. She set it on the table, closed her eyes for a moment, drew in a deep breath. Then she looked down and opened the little book.

Gene and Jason found her there an hour later, absorbed in page after page of drawings, studies and notes, her cheeks still wet with tears.

_and oh, when I'm old and wise_

_bitter words mean little to me_

_autumn winds will blow right through me_

_and someday in the mists of time_

_when they ask me if I knew you_

_I'd smile and say you were a friend of mine_

_and the sadness would be lifted from my eyes_

_when I'm old and wise . . ._

_‘Old and Wise’, Alan Parsons Project (I used the vocal guide track by Eric Woolfson, paired with a beautiful short created by Dave McKean, the artist who drew the_ Sandman _graphic novel covers. Look at YT for break9away’s video)_


	9. Chapter 9

_October 20th_

The conference room is full of sullen resentment--well, if the expression on Chandler’s face is anything to go by at least. It’s a Sunday afternoon, and he’s called them in for a meeting. McMurphy is here too, on her own initiative, but then she has a vested interest in the outcome.

“Couldn’t this wait till Monday?” Chandler wants to know. Greg sits back in his chair and crosses his legs, just because he can.

“You’re upset because there are no doughnuts,” he says. Chandler rolls her eyes.

“It’s _Sunday_ ,” she points out in her best pedantic manner. “Why did you call us in? We don’t have any patients.”

Greg glances at Chase. The younger man says nothing, just looks back at him with that imperturbable expression he’s perfected over the years. “I’m thinking of streamlining the patient selection process—“

“—which is something we could discuss on Monday morning,” Chandler says. She folds her arms and gives him a belligerent glare. “You’re just jerking our chains because you can.”

Greg raises his brows. “If I can’t enjoy the perks of dictatorship, why bother to exercise my authoriteh?”

Leave it to Singh to get it right. “I’m here for the next half hour. After that all bets are off,” he says. There is a glint of humor in his dark eyes. “If you force me to choose between the wrath of my boss for leaving a meeting and my wife’s fury at me missing a soccer game with my oldest daughter, my wife wins every time.”

Greg nods. “Well said. If the obstreperous one will pipe down, we can get through this and return to our respective activities.” He casts a look at Chandler. “Okay with you?”

“Stop mocking me and get on with it,” she says.

“Well fine,” he says mildly, and catches a glimpse of Chase as he hides a grin. “If you’re gonna be that way about it, blame McMurphy. She’s the one who came to me with the idea.”

His head nurse sends him an inimical look from dark eyes, but she’s amused too, he can read her tells pretty well by now. “Thanks,” she says dryly. “I just thought maybe we should look into a paperless system . . .”

The discussion begins, as Chandler sulks while Chase and Singh debate the pros and cons with McMurphy.

“I like paper files,” Singh says. “You get clues from handwritten notes you might not get from a tablet or computer screen.”

“When you can read them,” Chase points out. “Half the time the comments and stats are illegible when they haven’t been transcribed.”

“Or if they’ve been photocopied several times,” McMurphy says. They all look at Greg. He shrugs.

“I got no horse in this race,” he says. “You’re the ones who use the files the most. I don’t look at ‘em unless you all fail to deliver.” A bit of a stretch, but not by much.

“This could have waited until tomorrow,” Chandler says once more. Chase gives her a direct look that says _get off it_ more clearly than even plain words could state. She subsides, but only for the moment. She is nothing if not persistent—and that’s why Greg keeps her as a team member. When even Singh is ready to call it quits, Chandler keeps going.

The next twenty minutes are spent in back-and-forth, with no resolution at the end. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” Greg says, and waits for the glare Chandler will surely send his way.

The drive home is a pleasant one. Fall color is at its peak now, and this year it’s magnificent. The maples are nearly done, with just a few scarlet displays here and there, but the beeches, box elders, poplars, sycamores and black walnuts all show colors of yellow from rusty gold to lambent, coruscating amber. With the oaks in their brown coats and the deep green of the pines, it’s a fine palette.

Of course the down side is the enormous layer of leaves in his yard, ready to be raked up and dumped somewhere else, probably in Goldman’s enormous compost bin. He’ll get Jason to do the work somehow. On that happy thought he drives through them to park Barbarella in the shed. As he closes the door, he sees Gunney and the kid in their back yard. There is an enormous pile of leaves between them. Jason turns his back and just that fast, Gene pushes him into the pile, and the battle is on. Greg watches them, aware of amusement and a deeper emotion, a sort of wistful ache deep inside that he has no wish or real need to acknowledge. After a few moments he goes inside.

The house welcomes him with music, and the fragrance of supper cooking. He stands there for a moment, to let the unnamed ache fade. Roz sits at the harvest table at work on something—a lesson plan for one of her students, no doubt. She makes a pretty picture in the soft light, absorbed in her lessons. When he comes in she looks up, and her slight frown of concentration turns into a smile of genuine pleasure. She gets to her feet in that graceful way he admires, and comes to him for an embrace and a kiss. They hold each other and enjoy the moment together.

“What’s for supper?” he wants to know after a while. Roz gives him a resigned look.

“You just love me for my cooking.”

“And sex,” he says, as he slides his hands down to her butt. She laughs and covers them with her work-worn, warm little mitts, and her fingers massage his gently.

They have dinner at the table after she clears away her work and cooks some pasta. Neither one of them says much, but it’s a relaxed, peaceful meal, with the radio on as the wind rustles in the leaves outside.

“How did it go?” Roz twirls her pasta around her fork.

“Didn’t get anything resolved,” he says, and steals a meatball from her plate. “But they’re thinking about it at least.” He glances at the books and papers piled on the coffee table. “Looks like you managed to stay occupied.”

“I’m taking on a new student,” she says quietly. “She’s got potential. She wants to major in math eventually.” She pushes the pasta around on her plate. “Just a freshman and already in Calc II.”

Greg’s fairly sure he knows what she feels. “Something you wanted to do,” he says. Roz doesn’t look at him.

“Sort of.”

“But somehow you ended up in trade school.”

“Yeah, well.” She sets her fork aside. “That dream was a long time ago.”

“But you’d still like to.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe.”

“You could ask me if I think you should go back to school.” He sits back a bit. She shakes her head.

“Too busy.”

“So stop wiring houses and take classes at the community college.” It’s deliberate provocation.

“I make good money as an electrician.” Roz sets her plate aside and turns to face him, but she’s not upset. Her expression is thoughtful, almost somber. “I’d have to cut my hours by half, maybe more. It would mean a big reduction in our budget.”

“Screw the budget.” He really doesn’t care about the money; they’ll manage. “If you want it, do it.”

She doesn’t answer him for a few moments. Then she says, “I’m . . . not sure about this.” Greg waits, he knows there’s more. “What if . . . what if it’s a mistake? All for nothing?”

“You mean, what if you flunk out or can’t handle it.” He sighs, impatient with her. “Not a big deal.”

“But it would be time wasted—“

“No it wouldn’t,” he snaps. “I don’t know why you’re worried. If anything you’ll graduate _magna cum laude_ and replace the head of the department when you go for your Masters, or even a doctorate.”

Roz’s eyes widen. “An advanced degree?” It’s plain she’s never considered it.

“If you’re gonna do it, do it all the way.”

She says nothing, just looks at him; it’s a check to make sure he’s serious. “I could take a couple of classes at first,” she says finally. “Just—just to see if it would work.”

He wants to tell her to go for a full credit load, but he gets that she’s apprehensive. If he pushes too hard she’ll back away. “No less than three. And you’ll do it this week. The college will get you set up for the spring semester.”

After a brief silence Roz nods. “Okay.”

When supper is over she puts away the leftovers and washes up. Greg watches her from the living room, where he has the game on. She doesn’t look worried or scared, but he can tell she thinks about what they discussed. When everything is done, she comes in and sits next to him on the couch, but she doesn’t snuggle in.

“This is a big deal to me,” she says. “Thank you for—for understanding.”

“Gonna thank me for not smoking too?” he wants to know. Roz gives him a wry look.

“I really don’t want to fuck this up.”

“I don’t know what you think would happen if you did,” he says. “It’s not like I’d leave or kick you out, or decide to associate with someone smarter.”

Her gaze drops. “It’s stupid, but there’s a part of me that . . . that worries you might.” He can barely hear her. In exasperation he sits up, ready to bitch her out for her stupidity—and then he sees her hands clasped in her lap, trembling. All his annoyance fades.

“Come here.” He eases her against him. She curls into his embrace, so that her head rests on his shoulder. “No matter what happens, you won’t fuck it up.”

“I’m not college material.”

“No one is.” At her groan he persists. “What does that even mean? It’s crap. Just a way to stuff someone into a pigeonhole labeled ‘I think you’re an idiot but I’m too polite to say so’. No one is college material. Everyone gets thrown into the deep end that first year. Some people find a way to not drown, that’s all.”

“You probably did just fine.” Roz takes his hand in hers.

“Shows what you know. I was expelled from two medical schools.” He strokes her arm lightly with his fingertips, a slow caress. “You’re ready. You’ll do fine.”

They watch the game for a while. “Okay,” Roz says eventually, and sighs as she relaxes at least. “Okay.”

At the very end of the fourth quarter his father calls. “Watching football here, you old fart,” Greg says.

“Dallas won that game by halftime,” Hawkeye laughs. “So how are you? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Everything okay there?”

“My wife has some interesting news for you on the education front.” Greg hands the phone to Roz. She gives him a glare but her heart isn’t really in it. She takes the phone and says “Dad?” After a moment a slow smile curls the corners of her mouth. Greg disentangles himself and gets up, to go to the kitchen and get a beer. As he resumes his seat on his return, she puts the conversation on speaker.

“So, I was wondering if you’d have me down for the holidays,” Hawkeye says.

“Nothing like inviting yourself.” Greg pops the cap on his beer and tosses it on the coffee table.

“Fine by me.” Roz doesn’t hesitate. “Stay as long as you like, we’d love to have you here.”

“Is she right?” Hawkeye wants to know.

“How much turkey can you put away in one sitting?”

“Let’s put it this way, Dad and I never had leftovers.” There’s a pause. “Listen, if you don’t—“

“Just trying to figure out how much bird wifey needs to roast, that’s all.” Greg takes a long swallow of beer.

“I happen to know for a fact we’ll be at the Goldmans for dinner.”

Greg rolls his eyes. “So you’re already planning to stay.”

“I’ve been invited to dinner at Gene and Sarah’s, nothing more.” Hawkeye sounds like he enjoys this exchange.

“Balls. Sarah gave you a room in perpetuity, no doubt.”

“So spend some time with them, then come over and stay with us through New Year’s,” Roz says. She looks at Greg, asking silently if he agrees. He answers with a long slug of beer, just to make her shake her head at him.

“Well, if you’re okay with that—yeah. Yeah, it would be great. I’d enjoy hanging out for more than a couple of days.” Hawkeye sounds pleased.

“I suppose you’ll want to loiter around the clinic,” Greg says.

“If you still have McMurphy working for you, I’d be interested.” There’s a smile in his father’s voice.

Greg can’t help but chuckle at that. “Hitting on the hired help. You’re all class.”

“I take it you have no objections then.”

“Makes no never mind to me.” He belches and puts his feet on the coffee table. “It’s past your bedtime.”

“Wow, what a noodge. Hey Roz, tell him to get his feet off the coffee table,” Hawkeye says on a chuckle.

They continue in this vein for a few more minutes, as they lob verbal volleys back and forth, and Greg is surprised to find this is actually something like fun. Hawkeye doesn’t try to trap him in a mistake, doesn’t intend to lecture him on his shortcomings; there’s nothing there but what appears to be genuine affection. It’s still a source of amazement to Greg that his real dad wants to be a part of his life, and even more astonishing, the desire is mutual to some degree.

The call ends with a promise from Hawkeye to get in touch with them in another week or so and settle details. When it’s done Roz looks at Greg. “You like him,” she says.

“Just because you do, don’t project.” He finishes off his beer.

“It’s okay to like him,” Roz persists. “He’s worth it.”

“And you’d know this how?”

“Sometimes he calls during the afternoon and we talk.” She says it simply. “If he was just trying to scam you I’d know it by now. He’s not. I’m not saying he wants to be your long-lost daddy. He just wants to know you better.” She looks sad for a moment. “He won’t be here forever.”

“Something wrong with him?” The thought bothers him.

“He’s old,” Roz says. “What about Blythe?”

“What about her?” Greg gives her a sharp look. “You aren’t thinking about having the two of them here together. No. No fucking way.”

“No, I wasn’t. But has she said anything to you?”

“She’ll be at my aunt’s place. It works for her and she’s happy.” He’s not about to invite his mother to stay with them while Hawkeye’s here.

“Okay.” Roz leaves it at that. She doesn’t want his mother to visit any more than he does, maybe even less. As far as he knows, Blythe has never been anything less than kind to his wife, but that’s as far as it goes on either side. Mom was not one to make friends, and it appears she isn’t about to change that pattern now. She gets along with Sarah, but that’s because they have him in common . . . He pushes the thought away and picks up the remote, shuts off the tv.

“Early to bed, early to rise,” he says, and leers at Roz. She grins at him, takes his hand and goes with him into the bedroom.

After a lengthy and delightful session of lovemaking they lie in each other’s arms, as their breaths mingle and slow in the soft darkness. They’ve been together long enough now to sleep on opposite sides of the bed, but they still like to be close. He still falls asleep with his nose in his wife’s soft, fragrant hair, her slender body spooned against him, pert little butt pressed to his thighs and belly.

“Call the college tomorrow,” he reminds her.

“Mmm . . .” She shifts a little closer. “I will.”

They settle into sleep, accompanied by the faint rustle of leaves in the yard, stirred by a chill autumn wind.


	10. Chapter 10

_October 25th_

Jason rode into the clinic parking lot, pulled up next to the side door everyone used except the patients, and put his bike in the bare spot behind the bushes that had become his unofficial space. It wasn’t as good a hiding place now that the leaves had fallen, but no one ever came back here anyway. Besides, once he dumped his stuff he could come back out and bring the bike into the entryway. McMurphy said it was okay, and nobody else (which meant House) had said anything about it.

There was a meeting in session in the conference room. Jason glanced that way as he headed for the kitchen. The whiteboard wasn’t out and there were stacks of files on the table, so they were in the initial stages. He wondered who they’d choose, and what was wrong. He’d get to sit in—House had given him permission to monitor the selection process and differentials, as long as he didn’t talk about them with anyone outside the clinic staff.

But he was hungry, so for the moment that took priority. Jason grabbed some apple slices, a banana and several oatmeal-raisin cookies from various containers, washed them all down with milk, and topped it off with a couple of mini candy bars from the jar on the counter. He munched as he went to the conference room and slipped inside, to take his usual seat in the corner. House sat at the head of the table, his feet propped on the gleaming wood. He glanced at Jason with shrewd blue eyes, but said nothing.

“It’s Bassen-Kornzweig,” Chase said. “Everything fits. The kid’s got high levels of fat in her stool, abnormal blood cells, clotting time is off, she’s even showing signs of retinitis—“

“It’s more common with boys,” Chandler said. She gave Jason a narrow look, then offered him a half-smile by way of greeting. He nodded at her and opened his English homework assignment.

“’More common’ means about seventy percent of patients with abetalipoproteinemia are male. That leaves thirty percent for females, a one in three chance.” Chase closed the file. “The symptoms fit, not one out of place. We should inform the pediatrician and the family.”

House raised a brow at Chandler. She sat back and folded her arms. “It’s not up to me.”

“It’s simple. Either you concur or you don’t,” House said. Chandler gave him a stony look.

“Since when has that ever mattered?”

Chase held up his hand and rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Playing just for you,” he said. Jason bit the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t laugh. He got busy with his homework, and hoped he looked studious and above all, innocent.

“Wise choice,” House said. Jason dared a glance at him and found the older man watched him while a corner of his mouth quirked up.

Dad came to pick Jason up an hour or so later. It was clear he was preoccupied, but the smile he offered was genuine. “How was your day?”

“Okay.” Jason watched his old house as they passed it. Apparently someone had bought it, or whoever owned the property had decided to fix it up. A roofers truck sat in what passed for the driveway, and he could see a tree crew at work in the back yard. He wondered what the place would be like cleaned up. The thought was weird. He couldn’t imagine anyone who knew the history of the place would ever want to live there . . . but if the rent was cheap enough, someone would move in eventually, and another family might grow up there. He shivered a little and hoped whoever it was had a good mom and dad.

“You know, if you want to stop and look around we could do that,” Dad said quietly. Jason didn’t turn his head.

“No,” he said after a few moments.

“Okay.” And Dad left it at that, for which Jason was glad.

It felt good to walk into his real home. He dumped his backpack and jacket next to the washer in the mudroom as Mom called from the kitchen, “Hey you two, I’m home!”

Dad grinned. “Yes dear,” he yelled back, and tossed his coat over Jason’s.

Mom had a chicken ready to go into the oven, along with potatoes, onions, carrots and celery. A pan of cornbread cooled on the counter. Jason’s mouth watered at the sight, but he wouldn’t get any of it, at least not for supper. He had a date of sorts tonight--dinner and a movie with Mandy and two of her friends from her creative writing class.

“How was your day?” Mom wanted to know. She looked at him and smiled, her eyes more green than grey, a sign she was happy. “Okay for a Friday?”

“Yeah.” He snuck a slice of raw potato out of the pan. Mom rolled her eyes.

“Bottomless pit,” she said on a laugh. “Put your stuff away and you can have a small snack before you go out, if you like. Lord knows you don’t need it, but if you don’t get one you’ll eat the whole tub of popcorn before anyone else even gets a look at it. And that will be after your dinner, too.” She softened her words by a gentle tug on his hair.

“ _Mom_ ,” he groaned, both delighted and annoyed at her teasing, as usual.

She laughed again. “Go get cleaned up.”

He’d made the decision before his first date with Mandy a couple of weeks previous that he wouldn’t wear anything different than his usual stuff. It was therefore a little surprising to find Mom and Dad had worn nice clothes—nothing dressy, but not what they wore around the house either.

“I like to look good when I’m out with my wife,” Dad had said when Jason mentioned it. It was a simple statement, but Jason felt the emotion behind it. He thought about that as he went into his bedroom. Slowly he went to his closet and opened the middle drawer of the chest. He stared down at his good shirts and considered his options.

A short time later he emerged from his room, self-conscious and ready to take offense at any sign of teasing or jokes. Dad saw him first; he said nothing, just nodded as he went into the kitchen. Mom was a bit more vocal. She looked him up and down as she wiped her hands on her apron.

“Just right,” she said finally. “Your ride will be here in a few minutes. You have everything you need?”

“Yeah,” Jason said. He’d checked as he put on the fresh shirt and jeans, and his jacket. Mom offered him a cookie.

“You’ll be okay,” she said softly. “Just be yourself. You’re pretty cool, you know.”

Jason rolled his eyes. To his relief he heard a car pull up in the drive. “Gotta go.”

“Remember, back by no later than eleven,” Mom said. “See you later. Say hi to Mandy and Anne for me.”

His anxiety returned as he went outside to find the other couple in the car already, along with Mandy and her mother. He climbed into the back and did his best to squinch into the corner.

“Hi Jason,” Mandy said. “Guys, this is my good friend Jason Goldman. Jason, this is Jen Kelly and Paul Frownfelter.”

Jason nodded at them. Jen gave him a lazy smile. “You’re cute,” she said. Jason felt his face heat up. Paul looked a little annoyed, but said nothing. Mandy gave Jason a sidelong glance.

“We’re going to that Asian place next to the movie theater,” she said. Jason sighed silently. He was not a fan of Chinese food, but he’d do the best he could.

“Okay,” he said.

“So you do talk,” Jen said. Jason gave her a startled look. “I’m in your English class. You never say anything.”

He didn’t know how to reply. “Sorry,” he said at last. Jen chuckled.

“It’s okay,” she said. She had a wide mouth, with big soft lips that curved like a bow. Paul turned his head, but not before Jason saw him roll his eyes.

“Jason’s better at math,” Mandy said. There was an odd edge to her words. Jason didn’t look at her. He felt anxious now, unsure of what to say, what to do that wouldn’t get him into trouble.

“You’ve been helping Mandy with her math homework all summer,” Mrs. Faust said. She smiled at Jason in the rear view mirror. To his surprise she gave him a slight wink. “It’s made a big difference.”

“You’re a tutor?” Paul said. Curiosity warred with disbelief in his tone.

“Yes,” Mandy said. “He is.” It wasn’t quite defiance, but her pride was evident. “He’s a good teacher. I understand a lot more.”

Jen turned her smile on Mandy. To Jason, it was as if she used it as a weapon. “You’re smarter than almost anyone else in the school. Smart enough to get a cute guy to give you private lessons.”

Jason swallowed as his face got even hotter. To his astonishment Mandy returned Jen’s smile.

“Yeah, well,” she said. Jen’s smile widened. Paul looked disgusted.

They arrived at the restaurant a short time later. “I’ll pick you up at the theater at ten thirty,” Mrs. Faust said. “Have fun!”

Jason just barely remembered to let Mandy into the booth first. He slid in next to her and took a quick look around as he removed his jacket. The place was fairly busy—not as much as Poppi’s place, but the wait staff didn’t goof off, that much was clear. He took a sort of semi-professional interest in what they wore and how they did their work.

“Hey,” Jen said. “Checkin’ out the servers?” She sat across from him, directly in his line of vision.

“I work in a restaurant,” he said.

“Lou’s, right?” Paul said, but he sounded interested this time. “What do you do?”

“Mostly prep work. But I bus tables and wait sometimes.” Jason almost sighed with relief when a server came to the table and handed out menus, then took their drinks order. After she left Mandy put down her menu. It was clear she’d already made up her mind.

“Not a salad,” Jen said, her tone teasing and yet somehow serious. Mandy picked up a lemon wedge and squeezed it into her iced tea.

“No,” she said. “I can have other stuff sometimes. They make really good Hunan chicken here.” She picked up her spoon and stirred her tea. “The beef lo mein is great too.”

Jason stared down at the items. He didn’t know what half of them were; the pressure to choose was overwhelming. He stalled for time with a large swallow of Coke.

“The shrimp isn’t bad,” Paul said. “I suppose you’re gonna do the fake chicken.” This last remark was addressed to Jen.

“No,” she said airily. “I’m gonna try something different.” She darted a glance at Jason, then down at the menu. “Happy Family.”

“It’s all seafood and carbs,” Paul pointed out.

“If I don’t like it someone else can eat it.” Jen shoved the menu away. She picked up her straw and peeled the paper down, her eyes on the task at hand. Jason suddenly had a strong and very unwelcome memory of his mother at the kitchen table as she did something similar with a banana. He sat up a bit and looked away, aware that Mandy watched him out of the corner of her eye.

The server came back then and took their order. That meant they had another fifteen minutes or so to kill before their food came out. Jason looked around once more, but there was no arcade. Paul had already pulled out his phone and was busy with texts.

“Telling your mom all about us,” Jen said. Her tone was less than friendly.

“No,” Paul said. He shot Mandy a look. “Did you finish the revision on that story we worked on today?”

“Of course.” Mandy stared down at the tabletop. Jason realized she was upset but tried not to show it.

“What story?” he asked.

“As assignment,” Paul said. He didn’t look up from the phone.

“What’s it about?” Jason directed the question at Mandy. She relaxed a bit. Before she could answer Jen spoke.

“Who cares? It’s just an assignment, no big deal.” She leaned in toward Jason a bit. “I’d rather hear about what you’re doing.”

Once again Jason was reminded of his mother. Jen made his skin crawl. “It’s a big deal to me,” he said quietly. “Mandy is my friend.”

That made Paul pause. He shot another look at Mandy, then at Jason. After a moment he said “We’re working on a genre assignment. We chose horror.”

“It’s almost Halloween so we wanted to write a short story,” Mandy said, and that began the discussion. Jason said nothing more, just sat and listened as the others talked about their work. Even Jen joined in, though she sulked at first and pretended she wasn’t interested, but gradually she warmed up and showed what Jason thought was genuine enthusiasm. He liked her a little better after that. For some reason she thought she had to be provocative, but it was an act, not her true nature. He understood that to some extent, and still wished she’d stop it. It was not attractive, at least to him.

Their food came, and the talk about writing continued as they ate. Things were more relaxed now; even Paul showed some signs of friendliness. Jason ate his pork fried rice and egg rolls and said little, but he paid attention to the conversation, noted the ebb and flow, the way they all sparked off each other, how they joked around. They really were friends despite the occasional friction between them.

After they’d finished and paid for their meal, they went over to the theater. Paul and Jen walked ahead, as they talked about the assignment. Mandy reached out, took Jason’s hand in hers. She gave it a little squeeze, then let go.

In the theater Jason found himself sandwiched between Mandy and Jen, with Paul next to Mandy. Jason wasn’t sure how he felt about this arrangement, but before he could get up to trade places with Paul, Jen plunked the tub of popcorn in his lap. “Just relax,” she whispered. Jason froze. He could almost feel his mother’s lips touch his ear as she said the same words; he was glad he hadn’t eaten much at the restaurant, because now he felt nauseated.

They sat through previews without saying much. Every now and then Jen put her hand in the popcorn bucket, and every time she did, it pushed down on Jason’s thighs. He knew she did it on purpose, but he also knew she wanted a reaction. He wasn’t about to encourage her, so he just endured it in silence and kept his focus on the screen.

About a third of the way into the movie, Mandy’s hand found his once more. Her fingers clasped his gently. She didn’t push her touch on him, just offered it. Jason took an odd sort of comfort in the simple gesture. For the rest of the movie he divided his attention between that warm touch, and the story on the screen. Now and then Jen leaned in to whisper something to him, but he ignored her as much as he could.

It was cold when they emerged from the theater. Mandy stayed close to him, so that her shoulder brushed his. Paul had his attention on his phone; Jen looked sullen, her pretty face scrunched into a frown.

Mrs. Faust waited for them, the car pulled up to the curb. Drifts of people walked by, illuminated briefly by the headlight beams.

“How was the movie?” she wanted to know.

“Pretty good,” Paul said, to Jason’s surprise. “I might see it again. The story was well written.”

“I liked it,” Mandy said. “Not bad.”

“Yeah,” Jason said, though he couldn’t recall a single moment of the story. “Not bad.” Jen said nothing, but her loud, exaggerated sigh spoke volumes.

They dropped off Paul and Jen first. Once Jen was out of the car and they were on their way, Mandy said “I don’t know why she was flirting with you like that. She’s not—she’s never done anything like that before.”

“It’s okay,” Jason said.

“She upset you.” He didn’t know what to say, so he stayed silent. Mandy sighed softly. “I’m sorry. This was supposed to be fun.”

“I had a good time,” Jason said. It was a half-lie; there had been some interesting moments, for him anyway. “The way she acted isn’t your fault.” He hesitated. “I enjoyed going out with you.”

Now it was Mandy’s turn to fall silent. When she did speak, her voice was very quiet. “Thanks.”

The kitchen was quiet when he came in through the back door. A light had been left on for him, a small gesture that eased his anxiety. He went to the fridge, took out the milk, and downed several swallows straight from the jug, and enjoyed the cold, rich taste. As he stood there he heard music come in faintly from the living room—it was Dad. Jason put the milk away, closed the fridge door and moved through the kitchen in silence, to stand by the table in the darkened dining area.

Mom and Dad sat in the living room; the bright, flickering light of a good fire played over them. Mom lay stretched out on the couch, and Dad sat on the floor close by. He had the Martin six-string cradled in his hands, to ease music out of it in gentle chords as he sang in his warm, resonant baritone. Mom had a hand on Dad’s shoulder. She rubbed it in slow circles as she listened.

_she comes down from Yellow Mountain_

_on a dark flat land she rides_

_on a pony she named Wildfire with a whirlwind by her side_

_on a cold Nebraska night_

Jason watched them, aware of an odd ache in his chest. He knew Mom had endured years of abuse much like the kind to which his own mother had subjected him, and yet she’d married Dad, made a life with him.

_oh they say she died one winter_

_when there came a killing frost_

_and the pony she named Wildfire busted down his stall_

_in a blizzard she was lost_

_she ran callin’ ‘Wildfire’ . . ._

He knew his parents liked sex. He’d seen them go hand in hand up the stairs at night, had seen them come down in the morning with that quiet glow of physical satisfaction around them; it was in the way they touched each other, the look in their eyes, the sound of their voices. What he didn’t understand was how Mom accepted it, even sought it out.

_by the dark of the moon I planted_

_but there came an early snow_

_been a hoot owl howlin’ outside my window now_

_‘bout six nights in a row_

_she’s coming for me I know_

_and on Wildfire we’re both gonna go_

_we’ll be riding Wildfire_

He’d talked about his mother’s abuse with his counselor, a little at least. But he’d only offered a few facts, the minimum amount required to satisfy the counselor’s questions. He’d never said anything to anyone about the truth he could barely admit to himself . . . when his mother had used him, as much as he’d hated it, it had felt good. And he hated that too, because he knew it was wrong somehow.

_on Wildfire we’re gonna ride_

_gonna leave sod-bustin’ behind_

_get these hard times right out of our minds_

_riding Wildfire . . ._

There was an answer here somewhere, but if he didn’t break the silence forced on him by his mother and his own shame and guilt, he wouldn’t be able to find it. And he wasn’t ready, he knew that much. He’d have to talk about it, but not yet. Soon, though. He took a breath and made himself move forward, into the light.

 

_'Wildfire', Michael Martin Murphy_


	11. Chapter 11

_November 1st_

_Dear Sydney,_

_a happy Day of the Dead to you. Do you celebrate in the otherworld? I’ve always been curious about that. Seems like holidays wouldn’t mean much to dead people. Then again, maybe it’s all you have left of life besides haunting houses and scaring people in their beds at night._

Sarah took a sip of tea and listened to the quiet house around her. Gene was down at the barn to rehearse with the Flatliners for the Christmas and New Year’s dances; Jason was at work until ten. She had the place to herself. Actually it felt good to be alone for a little while. She reached out, picked up her cup of tea and sipped, and enjoyed the astringent flavor while she listened to Lightnin’ Hopkins sing about New Orleans.

 _Life is full of change at the moment here. My husband is dealing with old trauma from his days in the military. Our son is dealing with old trauma inflicted by his biological parents. I’m actually talking with one of my brothers for the first time in many years. Not trauma exactly . . ._ Sarah paused. _Okay, that’s not true. He’s dying, Sydney._ She wasn’t surprised to find tears in her eyes. _I’m torn up inside over losing him, and I’m also furious that it took the end of his days for us to be able to say finally that we still love each other. Things aren’t easy between us yet, but we’re better than we were._

Unable to sit any longer, she got up and went to the window. It was dark already, but by the faint glow of the back door light she could see piles of leaves stir in the cold wind. A sudden sense of ending came over her. She glanced at the phone, went to it and took the handset from the receiver. She didn’t give herself time to think about her actions as she dialed Ben’s number.

The nurse who answered sounded cheerful. “He’s awake,” she said. “Hang on, I’ll see if he wants to talk.”

A few moments later Ben’s rough voice came on the line. “Hey Sare.”

“Hey,” she said, and sat down. “How are you?”

“Not bad.” The strain in his words told their own story of no relief from the pain. “How about you and your family?”

“I’m here by myself tonight. Gene’s off at a rehearsal and Jason’s working.”

“Your man plays music?” She heard the perk of interest.

“Yeah, guitar. He and some other guys here have a garage band.” She took a chance. “I’ll send you some tracks from their last dance, they’re pretty good.”

“Yeah, okay. I’d like that.” Ben sounded a little more relaxed. “Jason, he’s got a job—that’s good. Savin’ up his money for school?”

“Some of it.” Sarah couldn’t help but smile. “Some is for his social life.”

“Kid’s datin’ already?” Ben chuckled. “Bet he’s got ‘em climbin’ all over him, he’s a good-lookin’ boy.”

“Thanks. There’s a girl he’s known for a while, they’ve been friends since he started living with us.” Sarah smiled a little. “They’ve both got a thing goin’, but they haven’t quite figured it out yet.”

“They’ll get there.” Ben sighed softly. “You got yourself a good man, Sare. I’m glad.”

“Yeah, he is.” She hesitated. “You never found anyone?”

“I did, once. It was a while back. I was tryin’ to get it together, but it didn’t work out.” He fell silent for a few moments. “She was better than I deserved.”

“Does she know you’re sick?” Sarah asked gently, not wanting to re-awaken painful memories.

“Got no idea. She took off and it was the right thing to do.” Ben made a noise something like a groan. “I was startin’ to smack her around the way Dad did with us. She didn’t want no part of it and told me so. When I didn’t stop . . .” He sighed again. “Sare, I’m sorry. I hurt you too.”

“Yeah, you did.” Now the tears fell, slow and salty. “You did.”

They didn’t say anything for a long time. Then Ben spoke again. “If I could take it all back I would. You were a good sister.”

“Well, I tried.” Sarah wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah it does.” There was a murmur of voices. “They’re gonna do my bath now.”

“Are they—are they takin’ good care of you?” She couldn’t quite keep her voice steady. Ben didn’t answer right away.

“Yeah.” He was so quiet she could barely hear him. “Thanks for askin’, sis.”

“Of course I’m gonna ask, you big dummy.”

He laughed a little. “God. Haven’t heard you call me that in years.”

“It still suits you.” Sarah closed her eyes on a wave of sorrow. “I’ll let you go. Call any time, okay? Any time.”

“I will.” He hesitated again. “Love you, Sare.”

“Love you too,” she said, and it was the simple truth. “Talk to you soon.”

After the call ended she went out into the living room. The fire burned low now, and the air was chilly. She put on another log and stirred up the coals, then sat to watch the wood catch and send out a wave of delicious warmth. She held her hands to the heat and light, and thought about Ben. He sounded somewhat better than he had when they’d first started to talk. He was more open, more willing to share what he thought and felt. But she knew he’d probably come as far as he could, given the damage done over the years. She longed for more closeness even as she understood it wasn’t possible.

Slowly she sank back and let the memories flow in: Ben curled up next to her with his thumb in his mouth, one eye bruised shut; the day she’d taught him to climb up on a horse, his round little face bright with rare happiness and delight; the first time he hit her, her surprise and pain mirrored in his own features; the first time she’d visited him in prison, his green-grey eyes so much like hers, full of anger and even worse, confusion. In a way she was glad she didn’t have to face him now. She could tell by the way he spoke that he struggled to carry on a normal conversation, and it didn’t have anything to do with the emotional content or subject matter; the effort of speech was hard now. _We’ll have to do more vids_ was her last thought, right before sleep claimed her.

She woke to a kiss and couldn’t help but smile. “Hey,” Gene said against her mouth. “You okay?”

“You two are _sickening_ ,” a familiar voice said loudly, right behind Gene. “You could at least hold off until I leave!”

Sarah opened her eyes and smiled at her husband, and then her oldest boy. “There’s cake in the fridge, if that makes life any easier,” she said, and watched as Greg loped away into the kitchen. Gene leaned in and kissed her again.

“Hello, already nauseous here!” Greg yelled. Sarah laughed and felt her sadness lift. It would come back, but now she had a little more perspective.

“You okay?” Gene said.

“For now,” she said. “We can talk later, if that’s okay.”

“Yup.” He nuzzled her. She smelled barn dust, a hint of beer and his own scent, warm and musky.

“How’d practice go?”

“Not bad. Added some new songs. You want to sing again this year?” Gene tucked a curl behind her ear. “It’s sort of a tradition now. We could record it for Ben.”

Her heart gave a little lift of excitement and anxiety. “Yeah.”

“Okay, done.” Gene gave her a final kiss as Greg came in with an enormous wedge of chocolate cake. He sat down in the easy chair he’d claimed long ago.

“She’ll sing,” he said. Gene nodded. Greg dug out a huge bite of cake and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth. His jaws cracked as he chewed and swallowed. Sarah shook her head.

“Like a snake with a rat,” she said as she always did. “I know Roz feeds you.”

“Issa compliment,” Greg said through a mouthful of cake. He paused and stared at her. “Wha’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Talked to Ben. I’m just sad.” She leaned back into the cushions. Gene stroked her cheek.

“We’ll record it,” he said again. “Why don’t we vid everyday stuff too, just to send to him? He’d enjoy it.”

Sarah nodded. “’kay,” she said, and felt tiredness tug at her.

“That’s it. Off to bed,” Gene said. “I’ll pick Jason up from work. You’ve done enough for one day.”

Greg held up his fork and licked frosting from the tines. “You’ve got him well-trained.”

Sarah ignored Greg. “I can go.”

“Adding a guilt trip. Even better.” Greg excavated another chunk of cake. “Better get a move on, or the kid will turn into a pumpkin risotto.”

“I’ll go,” Gene said again. He brushed a kiss over Sarah’s lips. “Decide what you’d like to vid tomorrow and we’ll send it. Back in a few.” He kissed the end of her nose. “Go to bed.”

“You heard him,” Greg said as Gene headed for the back door. “I’ll make sure the house doesn’t walk off. Get going.”

Sarah gave him a wry look, but she got to her feet, then came to him. Without a word she bent down and kissed his cheek. “Thanks,” she said softly, and smiled at him. Greg rolled his eyes, but she saw a dimple deepen in his cheek.

She spent a few minutes in the office, then went upstairs and eventually climbed into bed. She fell asleep a short time later, too tired to think about anything except the comfort of clean sheets and a warm room, and the knowledge that she’d wake up with her husband in the morning.

_Whatever happens in the next few months, Sydney, we’ll do our best to deal with the situation and each other. I’ll give Ben whatever he’ll allow, and call it good. This effort is for him for the most part, after all. My turn will come after he’s gone._

_Say hello to the colleagues for me. If anyone wants to offer any pearls of wisdom, I’m more than happy to accept them. All my love, Sarah_

_‘Back to New Orleans,’ Lightnin’ Hopkins_


	12. Chapter 12

_November 11th_

Greg lopes up to the back steps to his house and pauses to stretch his legs one last time, to give his hamstrings a chance to loosen up a bit more. The day’s light is long gone, but the back door window is bright; he can hear the radio too, tuned to NPR and the news. He savors the feel of anticipation, and the uncomfortable but familiar sensation of sweat as it chills on his heated flesh. It was a good run, five miles this time—he pushed it a bit, but nothing he can’t handle as long as he’s careful to warm up and cool down for extended periods before and after.

His muscles are as loose and relaxed as they’ll ever be, so he opens the door and goes inside, to be greeted by a wave of warmth and the glad smell of dinner cooking in the oven—meat loaf, probably. Roz stands at the stove, enveloped in a white apron. She’s lifting the lid on what appears to be a vegetable of some kind. As he comes in she glances his way.

“How’d it go?” she asks.

“Still in one piece.” He sidles over to the cookie jar, only to have Roz move in front of it.

“Uh uh. Everything’s just about ready. By the time you take your shower and put on clean clothes, supper will be on the table.”

“You’re so mean,” he whines, and leans in to steal a kiss. Her lips are warm and soft against his. He tries to reach behind her, only to have his hand taken in hers and returned to his side.

“Cookies later,” she says, and gives him another kiss.

So he slouches off to take a long hot shower, and luxuriates in the steamy warmth. Eventually he shuts it down, hops out and grabs a towel, buffs off excess water and epithelial cells, slaps on some deodorant since it’s a special occasion for two good reasons, combs his fingers through what’s left of his hair, and heads into the bedroom to find something to wear. Tonight is the Flatliners’ first full rehearsal for the holiday shows they’ll play in a few weeks and he’s ready, he’s got the song lists in his head and he’s itching to practice.

Roz comes in just as he pulls a tee shirt over his head. “You took that out of the dirty laundry,” she says.

“So what?” He lifts the front and gives it an ostentatious sniff. “Smells okay.”

His wife rolls her eyes. “It looks like it came out of the hamper.”

“Again, so what?”

For answer she goes over to the chest of drawers and extracts a shirt. It’s one of his favorites, something he saves for special occasions—black patterned with abstract skulls and bones in varying shades of blue. “Wear this. It looks good on you.” She walks over, hands it to him and takes a kiss while she’s there. She smells of basil and flowers and herself, a potent mix. “I like you looking good,” she says against his lips, and the temptation to abandon the rehearsal for an evening in bed with his woman is overwhelming. Her kiss is sweet and fiery and all hers, her passion banked but still on offer, until she gives him a gentle push.

“Get going,” she says, and a laugh trembles in her words. “I have tutoring work to do after supper. We’ll see each other later. If you don’t come back at a decent hour I’ll be looking for you, mister.” Her eyes are green as a cat’s, full of amusement and a tender love that he still can’t quite believe is all for him.

“Come with me,” he says, as if on impulse. Roz’s smile fades a bit, but the light in her eyes grows.

“Really?” She looks pleased. Greg winces inwardly at her surprise. “Well . . . okay. Give me a minute.”

While he puts on the tee shirt she chose and a clean pair of jeans, his favorite broken-in sneaks and pea coat, she makes herself ready. When he meets with her at the door she’s bundled up in her down jacket, a knit cap over her thick hair. She also wears her latest purchase, a wickedly cool pair of chunky rawhide boots. He hoists the light casual-practice keyboard under his arm, and they head off for the barn.

It’s a cold night with a clear sky full of stars high above the bare tree branches. He feels content, at peace with the world—not a state of mind with which he’s had much acquaintance, but tonight it feels right, and earned for once. The leg aches a little but then the rest of him does too. It’s a good sensation, something he never thought to know again. He blows out a breath and fights a smile.

“What are you thinking about?” Roz asks. He glances at her. She walks along beside him, her gloved hand tucked in the crook of his arm. In the other hand she holds the flashlight they use for nighttime walks down the lane.

“Later,” he says, to see her reaction. She moves a little closer, and gives him a caress.

“Me too,” she says, and the happy note in her voice surprises him again, only this time he feels good, not anxious.

“Yeah?” He can’t help but question her.

“Yeah,” she says—and just that fast a song pops into his head. He chuckles out loud.

“I know that laugh. You’re up to something.” Roz doesn’t sound worried, though. She leans in to kiss his cheek. They continue down the lane in outward silence, but the song in Greg’s head makes his smile finally come out into the open. 

Gene is already in residence at the barn, with Jason at his side. He’s got both the heater and the wood stove going as he sets up amps and chairs. When Greg and Roz come in he looks over and nods. Jason gives them a sidelong glance as he puts together his sax, but says nothing.

“Gunney,” Greg says, and hauls the keyboard to the spot closest to the cube fridge. He sets it up, removes a beer from the fridge, pops the top and indulges in a long swallow full of crisp bitter flavor. Roz takes off her jacket to reveal a sleek, tobacco-brown cable-knit tunic that makes the most of her slight curves, and a pair of black leggings. Jason’s eyes widen before he turns away. Greg doesn’t blame him—she looks fantastic, elegant and sexy and far too cool for this modest setting. And she’s all his, too. A sense of smug male pride settles over him.

“Don’t hog the brew,” Gene says, and offers a slight grin. He looks a little better than he has for the last few weeks; he’s lost weight, his lean features more hawklike than ever, but he looks more at peace than he has in months. Greg salutes him with the beer.

Within another fifteen minutes everyone’s in attendance—Jay perched on a chair with bass ready to go, Singh behind the drums as he adjusts the high hats, Jason at work to warm his instrument, Gene on a stool with guitar in hand, to strum a few test chords. Greg finishes off the beer, checks to make sure the keyboard volume is adjusted properly, and gives in to impulse. “Before we start the list, I’ve got another song for New Year’s.” He takes a quick breath. “Let’s do ‘Yeh Yeh’.”

The reaction from the band is predictable. Gene’s face brightens and he nods. Jay and Singh have to think about it, but they catch up and agree too with enthusiasm. Only Jason is clueless. He clutches his sax and looks confused. Greg takes pity on him.

“We’ll play it for the kid,” he says. “In G. I’ll start us off.”

He gives them a full intro, then pulls the lyrics out of the recesses of his brain.

_well in the evenin’ when all my day’s work is through_

_I call my baby and ask her what shall we do_

_I mention movies but she don’t seem to dig that_

_and so she asks me why don’t I come to her flat_

They’re barely into the song and already the kid moves to the beat, eyes closed as he listens. His fingers move on the pads, figure out notes. Roz likes it; her slender bottom sways as she puts splits in the wood stove. These are both excellent signs. Greg suppresses a grin and continues.

_and have some supper and let the evening pass by_

_by playing records on a groovy hi-fi_

_I say ‘yeh yeh’ that’s what I say I say ‘yeh yeh’_

Gene shoots him an amused look, as his smile widens slowly. He starts to swing his hips too, just a subtle movement, but within a few notes both Singh and Jay broaden the beat, make it a bit less rock and a touch more bossa nova; the song is Latin soul at its heart, after all. Greg switches the mode from ‘electric piano’ to ‘Hammond organ’ and just that fast, they could be in a little 60s cellar nightclub. Greg half-expects a waitress in a plastic minidress with go-go boots, a beehive hairdo, and oodles of Yardley mascara supplemented by fake eyelashes to glide by—but they have Roz instead, who grooves to the sound with an instinctive dancer’s grace; her long legs move effortlessly to the beat.

_my baby loves me she gets me feelin’ so fine_

_my baby loves me she lets me know that she’s mine_

_and when she kisses I feel the fire get hot_

_she never misses she gives it all that she’s got_

_and when she asks me if everything is okay_

_I have my answer the only thing I can say_

_I say ‘yeh yeh’ that’s what I say I say ‘yeh yeh’_

Now they’re all into it. Singh has a solid, steady beat, Jay lays down the syncopated bass line, Gene’s got the rhythm cooking, and Greg is surprised to find the words right there, ready to fall from his lips as if he’s sung this song every day of his life.

_we’ll play a melody and turn the lights down low_

_so no one can see_

_(we gotta do that we gotta do that_

_we gotta do that we gotta do that)_

_and there’ll be no one else alive in all the world_

_‘cept you and me_

_yeh yeh_

By now the place is rockin’. It’s plain everyone likes this, he’s made a good choice. What the rest of them don’t know is this is purely for his wife. It is his tribute to her. And she gets it, if her smile aimed at him when she straightens is anything to go by. She thinks this is her birthday present. Well, it is—in part, anyway.

_well pretty baby I never knew such a thrill_

_just thought I’d tell you because I’m tremblin’still_

_well pretty baby I want you all for my own_

_I think I’m ready to leave those others alone_

_no need to ask me if everything is okay_

_I have my answer the only thing I can say_

_I say ‘yeh yeh’ that’s what I say I say ‘yeh yeh’_

_that’s what I say I say ‘yeh yeh’_

He’s no great shakes as a singer, never has been, but he can hit pitch and sell the sentiment when he needs to. At the moment however it’s easier than it’s ever been, because his heart is solidly behind every single word.

_we’ll play a melody and turn the lights down low_

_so no one can see_

_(we gotta do that we gotta do that_

_we gotta do that we gotta do that)_

_and there’ll be no one else alive in all the world_

_‘cept you and me_

_yeh yeh_

Jason’s got the melody line down now and plays along with them softly. In the past six months the kid’s grown by leaps and bounds as a musician. He’s got the fire, the need to get inside the tune and make it his, then share it with everyone else. By the time they get to the end of the song the boy will be able to add a solo break on the next time through—it’ll be a simple one, but he’ll have it worked out.

_well pretty baby I never knew such a thrill_

_just thought I’d tell you because I’m tremblin’still_

_well pretty baby I want you all for my own_

_just thought I’d tell you leave those others alone_

_no need to ask me if everything is okay_

_I have my answer the only thing I can say_

_I say ‘yeh yeh’ that’s what I say I say ‘yeh yeh’_

_that’s what I say I say ‘yeh yeh’_

They end big, bang the final chord hard just because they can, and Roz cheers. “That’s _fantastic!_ You have to do it for New Year’s! Play it again!”

So they do, they swing it for all it’s worth this time, and this time sure enough, the kid manages a solo in the open break they give him by tacit consent. It’s better than it should be because it’s heartfelt and played with enthusiasm. He honks twice, but no one cares. By the time they’re ready to play on New Year’s Eve he’ll have it perfected. Hell, he’ll have it ready by later tonight probably. Roz dances through the second run as well, immersed in the music with that beatific expression Greg knows means she completely loves what she hears.

“You’re gonna bring the house down,” she says at the end of the second run-through. “Guaranteed. Be ready to play it more than once.”

The rest of the rehearsal goes well too; it’s plain both the Christmas and New Year’s bashes will be crowd pleasers. There’s an odd sense of satisfaction to know people will truly enjoy the band’s music. They have a long and varied list of songs for both occasions; they work on the newer charts Greg and Gene dug out of obscure albums and various online searches over the course of the summer. There will be some old favorites of course, and carols for the sing-along; still, they’ve tried to find some unique stuff to scatter in with the familiar oldies for both holidays.

They are near the end of the rehearsal when they hear Minnie Lou pull up. A few minutes later Sarah comes in. She has a big covered container in her hands. She sets it on a sawhorse, walks over to Roz and gives her a hug. “Happy birthday!” she says, and that’s the signal for the celebration to begin.

The container holds a sheet cake from Rick’s, and there are candles of course, along with paper plates and forks, some ginger ale and a couple of wrapped boxes. While Sarah lights the candles the band plays ‘Happy Birthday’ and Jay sings the words, with a grin for his cousin. The expression on Roz’s face is priceless. She looks about five years old, her eyes bright with delight. Greg knows she had precious few celebrations like this in childhood, at least not until she lived with Lou and Nana; it still causes a secret ache deep inside him when she shows so much happiness at such a simple thing as a birthday celebration.

Gene puts on Sam Cooke while the cake is distributed and Roz is given her presents. The first box holds a muffler, cap and mittens, all hand-knitted in shades of green alpaca yarn, soft and lustrous. Greg knows Sarah commissioned them from Marti Butterman, a knitter renowned for her skill in the village. Roz will wear it all home, that much is clear.

The second box contains several books of poetry—Heaney, Sexton, Rossetti, and a compilation. Roz holds them with a respectful touch. “Thank you,” she says, and flashes them all a smile, her dark features bright with joy. “Thank you so much.”

So they munch chocolate cake and chat while Roz dances with Jason to ‘Twistin’ the Night Away’, one of the songs on the New Year’s list. Singh joins them, says something to make Jason grin, a rare sight. Sarah slips outside, to return with a shopping bag. She moves quietly to Greg’s side and sets the bag by the bed.

“There’s everything you need. I put clean sheets on the bed too,” she says, and rests her hand on his shoulder for a moment. “Have fun tonight.”

“ _Mom_ ,” he growls, even as he enjoys her attention. “Parental permission ruins the atmosphere, you know.”

Sarah just laughs and gives him a gentle pat. “Have fun,” she says again, then joins the dancers.

Eventually however, the others leave one by one with final birthday wishes. Quiet descends on the old barn. It’s warm now, with just the light from the wood stove and an oil lamp on the stand by the bed.

“We’re staying here tonight?” Roz says. She’s surprised but not upset, in fact she looks immensely pleased. For answer Greg opens the shopping bag and brings out a bottle of wine and the corkscrew extractor.

“You do the honors,” he says, and offers them to her. She looks at his hands, then up at him. Without a word she takes both items and goes to work on the cork while he brings out the glasses. There’s crackers and cheese too, and the last of the fresh pears from Annie’s orchards, a little soft now but still delicious., and Italian chocolates.

They have a makeshift picnic on the bed while music plays softly in the background—Sergio Mendes and Brazil ’65, one of her personal favorites. Roz nibbles a cracker and takes a sip of wine. “Mmm . . .” She savors it, her eyes closed, and Greg sees the way her long dark lashes lie on her cheek, a little detail of which he never tires. “Nice _asti_.”

For answer he holds out his glass and clinks it with hers. She smiles at him, then offers her wine to him. He looks at her for a long moment, takes in the way her eyes change color to that deep moss-green he secretly treasures. Then he leans in and sips from the glass. The wine is delicious, but not as fine as she is.

Eventually they set everything on the stand and lie down together to face each other.

“This feels like a first date,” Roz says. She puts her hand to his face, strokes it gently. “Wanna make out?”

He turns his head and kisses her palm, feels her draw in a breath, and just that fast the emotion changes to urgency, a need for skin on skin. He moves close, tugs gently at her sweater, and that starts the sweet process of clothing removed bit by bit as they kiss and caress each other. Their breaths mingle as the music plays soft and low in the background, a gentle samba with flute and guitar.

Soon enough she lies beside him naked, her slender body gilded in the soft, flickering light. Greg runs a hand over her arm, feels gooseflesh rise. Without a word he gets up to move the covers back, but when he starts to climb in Roz says “Wait.” She looks at him, takes him in. He fidgets, uncomfortable under her steady gaze.

“What?” he says finally, unable to stand her scrutiny any longer. “Is my nose hair too long or something?”

“Shut up,” she says, but she smiles when she says it. “I just like looking at you.”

There is nothing he can say to that, so he just stands there and feels about as gauche and naïve as Jason. Roz’s smile widens a little. “I love it when you blush,” she says. He rolls his eyes. “Okay, come on in.”

He obeys with alacrity, and slides under the cool sheets. The chill slows down his incipient erection, but only for a few moments. Roz’s warm body brings everything back to life. She eases him into her arms, holds him close with an eagerness he always finds surprising and somehow necessary now; they kiss, breathe in the scent of each other, familiar and exciting at the same time. When she opens to him he doesn’t hesitate. They move together, slow, steady, her soft sighs a sweet accompaniment to the music adrift slowly through the quiet air.

They lie arm in arm, bodies pressed close in the mutual enjoyment of afterglow, when she says softly “You do that for me, you know.”

“Mmm . . . do what?” he says, drowsy and sated. Normally he avoids intimate conversations like this one as if they carry bubonic plague, but his wife doesn’t use after-sex moments to destroy his trust; quite the opposite, in fact. He waits to hear what she has to say.

“You love me right.” She quotes the song as she nuzzles him, her breath warm on his skin. “I hope I do that for you too, _amante_.”

He really doesn’t know what to say in response, so as usual he takes refuge in mockery. He makes sure to pull his punches though; it is her birthday, after all. “No complaints about your samba moves.”

“Good.” He feels her lips curve in a smile. “I can say the same thing, you know.”

“Huh,” he scoffs. “You’re not too picky.”

He feels her tense, and then she sits up. “Why do you do that?” she wants to know. “Why do you put yourself down?”

He stares at her, surprised by her vehemence. Roz stares back at him, her smile gone. She’s not mad, but . . . ‘exasperation’ might be a good word to use. Greg swallows on a throat gone dry suddenly. _Fucking this up_ , he thinks, as fear rises inside him. _Dammit, I’m fucking this up!_

“No you _aren’t_ fucking this up,” she says with that uncanny way she has to know exactly what he thinks at times. “I just don’t like someone talking trash about my man, especially if he’s the one doing it.” She lies down next to him again. He doesn’t say anything, afraid he’ll make things worse. Roz puts her hand to his cheek, turns his head so he faces her. “You don’t have to say something bad before I beat you to it,” she says, and kisses him. Not a pity kiss either; it lets him know she finds him desirable, and wants to be exactly where she is. The fear abates a little.

“You chose me,” she says after a while. “You didn’t have to do that. When we met we didn’t like each other much, but you got to know me, and then you let me know you. No man ever did that for me before, no one ever wanted to.”

Greg hesitates. There’s something he’s wanted to know about for some time. “Your grandfather said there was someone before me. Not Rick—he said it was some _buffone_ who hurt you.”

Roz sighs softly, but she doesn’t hesitate, and Greg’s apprehension fades a little more. “There was a guy in Buffalo, at the trade school.” Her soft, dark voice holds no emotion now. “He . . . he hit on me. I didn’t know what he was doing until long after he left, because no one ever . . . ever even wanted to date me, much less mess around. Someone told me he’d bragged about how easy it was to get what he wanted. He chased after me until I went out with him . . .” She rests her cheek against his chest. “But the whole time I never knew who he really was, and he never wanted to know anything about me. The only intimate detail he ever learned was that I was a virgin.”

The unspoken pain in her words leaves him in shreds. He can’t stand the knowledge that someone deliberately hurt her. So, he hurts her. “You’re an idiot,” he says harshly.

“Yeah,” she says. “I am. But you know it and you still stay with me anyway. I know you don’t suffer fools gladly. That means a lot.”

Where to start with that statement? As always he feels totally inadequate in personal areas. “ _No_. I mean . . . oh _balls_ ,” he groans, “this is a mess,” and to his astonishment, she starts to laugh.

“God, I love you,” she says, to bewilder him even more, and she kisses him again.

“I don’t understand,” he says when the kiss is done.

“Neither do I, but we’ll figure it out later. Right now it’s still my birthday and I say we share a piece of cake and finish off the wine before we add some wood to the stove.” She pauses. “And I get a song.”

She really isn’t mad at him, and he didn’t fuck it up. Relief floods through him like a tidal wave. “Oh you do, do you?”

“Yes, I do. You choose. Just play for me.” She kisses him on the lips. “Please,” she whispers, and he is not proof against her simple request.

He does everything she asks, and then wraps himself in the extra blanket to sit at the keyboard. When the song comes into his head he begins to play, and feels the music settle around them, sweet and sad, and exactly right.

_just a perfect day_

_drink sangria in the park_

_and then later_

_when it gets dark, we go home_

Roz listens, glass of _asti_ in hand, her features shadowed.

_just a perfect day_

_problems all left alone_

_weekenders on our own_

_it’s such fun_

_just a perfect day_

_you made me forget myself_

_I thought I was someone else_

_someone good_

_oh it’s such a perfect day_

_I’m glad I spent it with you_

_it’s such a perfect day_

_you just keep me hanging on_

When it’s done he switches off the keyboard, takes the small velvet box from its hiding place in his coat pocket, and sits on the bed next to Roz. He offers her the box. She sets her wine glass aside and takes it, opens it with care. Inside is a dragonfly—or to be more accurate, a pin shaped like a dragonfly. It’s made of anodized metal, iridescent, light as a feather. The wings are filled with delicate spirals and circles. The moment he’d seen it online, he’d known it was hers.

Roz takes the little pin with gentle fingers. She looks up at him; her smile is everything he ever hoped for. Without a word she puts the pin back in its box, sets it on the stand with care, then moves the covers so he can slip into bed with her. When he does she puts her arms around him and brings him close without a word; she holds him as if he’s something to cherish. They fall asleep that way, his cheek against her forehead.

In the morning when they walk back to the house, the dragonfly pin is perched in pride of place atop her new cap like some last moment of summertime, fragile and bright in the weak sunshine.

_‘Yeh Yeh’, Georgy Fame and the Blue Flames (the version most people know, though the original was an instrumental done by Mongo Santamaria; just about anyone over the age of 50 should have at least a vague memory of this song, depending on what side of the pond you lived on. Hugh and the Copper Bottom Band did a great cover of it last year on tour, check YouTube for various versions)_

_‘Very Nice,’ Sergio Mendes and Brazil ’65 (the snippet of lyrics Roz quotes come from this song)_

_‘Perfect Day’, Lou Reed_


	13. Chapter 13

_November 13th_

Hawkeye put the plate in the dishrack and glanced at the clock. The house was quiet, aside from the usual muted creaks and ticks as the old place settled in for the night. He’d do that himself in a few minutes, after he finished in the kitchen; he’d probably even make similar sounds, once he went to bed. With a sigh he put the tea towel in its place on the oven door handle, and moved into the living room just as the phone rang. The sound was loud, unexpected. Hawkeye moved to the stand and picked up the receiver, checked the caller ID. What he saw made him smile. He answered quickly.

“Hey,” he said, and didn’t bother to hide the pleasure in his voice. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“Hey Dad,” Roz said, and the happiness in her own voice warmed him. She really did think of him as a father too; their relationship had grown steadily since his entry into Greg’s life. They’d moved from cautious liking to a deep and tender affection that afforded both of them a great deal of enjoyment. “How are you?”

“Just finished dinner,” he said, and sat down in the easy chair next to the stand. “How about you? How’s everything going? Everyone all right down there?”

“It’s all good. We’re doing fine. I just wanted to see how your travel plans are shaping up.” The eagerness in her words made his smile widen to a grin.

“I thought I’d drive,” he said, just to get her going.

“You think wrong,” she said instantly, and he couldn’t help but laugh.

“Calm down, I’m joking. One of my former patients is gonna drop me off in Boston. You and your hubby can pick me up in Syracuse.”

“Good.” The flat, protective note in that one word made him laugh again. “When do you come down?”

“Whenever you want me,” he said. “I just need to pick a date. It’s up to you.” He hesitated. “I—I don’t want to be a pain, you know? Outstay my welcome.”

“You should have thought of that before you decided to come down here, _Dad_ ,” another voice said. Hawkeye snorted a laugh.

“Greg,” he said in acknowledgment. “Nice of you to eavesdrop.”

“It’s my phone.”

“True,” Hawkeye agreed. “So, since you’re here—when do you want me there, and when do you want me to leave? Might as well get it figured out now.”

“Why the fuck would I care?” Greg said. His tone was harsh, but Hawkeye heard the anxiety beneath it. He would have to tread carefully.

“It’s your home,” he said. “You tell me how long to stay. I’ll abide by your decision.”

There was a brief silence. Then, “Work it out with the wife.” And he was gone. Hawkeye sat back, his amusement gone.

“You still there?” Roz said.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” He blew out a breath. “Are you sure he’s okay with this? He sounds—not okay, I guess. Maybe this is a mistake.” It was a thought he’d wrestled with in the depths of night, when sleep deserted him and old memories came to haunt the darkness.

“If he didn’t want you here, he’d say so,” Roz said. She sounded sure of that. “It’s his way of telling you it’s all right with him for you to stay as long as you want.”

“Really?” Some of the tension deep inside eased a bit. “You’re not—that’s not just a fib to make the old man happy or something?”

“Nope. So when do you want to come down? Let me bring up the calendar.” There were muted sounds as she moved around, and then suddenly music. “ _Shit_ —hang on—“ He heard Greg say something, plainly some derogatory remark, because Roz said tartly “Buzz off, I didn’t play it when you were home! Okay, I have it.”

“What’s the song?” Hawkeye asked, amused at the exchange.

“Oh, just—just something—“

“Don’t get her started. She listens to crap music.” Greg had clearly picked up the extra handset once more.

“I do not! Just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s crap!” Roz said, but it was plain she tried not to laugh.

“Dare you to play it for him.”

“Go away!” Roz snapped. Greg clucked at her. “ _Stolto_! Knock it off!”

“You won’t play it because you know it’s C-R-A-P.”

“Will you _stop_?” Roz hissed. Silence greeted her. “ _Finally_. Okay, I have November dates. How about the twenty-fifth?”

“How about you play me that song?” Hawkeye said.

“Oh _god_ , not you too!” Roz groaned. “I just—I heard it—oh hell, fine. I’ll send it to you later, okay?”

“You’ll be sooooooorry,” Greg said in the background. “You’re doooooomed.”

“ _Testa de cazzo!_ Go _away!_ ” Roz growled. Hawkeye couldn’t help but laugh.

“If I didn’t know better I’d say you two were newlywed twenty-somethings,” he said eventually, wiping tears from his eyes.

“With him, more like ten-something,” Roz said tartly. “So, the twenty-fifth—“

“Nope. Song first,” Hawkeye said. There was a long pause.

“If I ever had any doubts you were his real dad, you just killed the last of them.” Roz sighed. “You and your son are both a gigantic pain in my backside, do you know that?”

“Just send the song,” Hawkeye suggested.

“I’ll send you something, all right. Fine. But only if you agree not to listen to it until after the call.”

“Sure,” Hawkeye said. He sensed she really was embarrassed. While he enjoyed teasing her, he knew she’d had enough. “You got it.”

The muted clacking of keys, then, “It’s headed your way. Now can we PLEASE decide on dates?”

“Yes dear,” Hawkeye said meekly, and Roz laughed.

“I’m surrounded by smartasses. Okay, let’s see . . .”

They decided on the twenty-fifth for arrival, and January tenth for departure. “That gives you plenty of time to hang out,” Roz said, and sounded pleased. “It’ll be nice to have you here.”

“Thanks,” Hawkeye said, warmed by her affection. “I’m looking forward to it.” He sat back. “That cute nurse who works for your husband, is she still around?”

“McMurphy? Yeah, she is,” Roz said. “You’ll get to see plenty of her.”

“I certainly hope so,” Hawkeye said.

“Definitely Greg’s dad,” Roz laughed. “So tell me how you are, what you’re doing.”

They talked for some time, an easy back-and-forth that eased the last of his reservations about this trip. While his son might feel some ambivalence, it was plain his wife didn’t.

After the call ended, he brought up the email with the file attached, and let the music play. He vaguely remembered the song; the Sixties had gone by in a blur of work, alcohol and nightmares, brought to a head by the loss of his father. He’d just existed for some time after that, unable to accept that he was well and truly alone. It had taken some time for him to stitch together the rags of his courage, and get help.

Now he listened to the music and smiled. Roz had nothing to worry about, despite her husband’s teasing. His daughter-in-law was for the most part a serious traveler, but when it came to music she had the heart of an eight-year-old. The song was pure pop, true enough—as light and meaningless as a grain of sugar. And yet it felt as though someone had offered him a moment of summer sunshine. He suspected Greg felt the same way about it under all his raillery. The music revealed Roz’s warm and generous nature, carefully hidden away behind that quiet front. It was a gift of trust, and he had to reciprocate somehow.

It took him some time to figure out how to navigate the music channel, then attach the address to an email, but he managed it before he shut down the computer and went to bed.

_November 14th_

Roz stirred some sugar into her coffee and yawned. She glanced out over the back yard and shivered as the last of the leaves stirred on the bare ground. Eventually she’d be out in that cold, on her way to a construction site where she worked on the wiring for a new house . . . With a sigh she shuffled over to her phone to check for new messages; the contractor liked to send her schedule changes at the last minute.

To her surprise there was an email from Hawkeye with an attachment. She opened it and listened. After a few moments she began to smile. She set her coffee on the counter and let the rhythm have its way with her, delighted. She liked Duke Ellington, but she’d never heard this version of ‘It Don’t Mean A Thing’; it was delicious, sweet and spicy. She’d have to look up Ivie Anderson. And later on, when she was home for the day and before her students arrived, she’d send her father-in-law another song.

When Greg came in she stood at the stove and danced as she kept time with the spatula. He paused, then came in and glanced at the phone, one brow raised. Without comment he leaned in and kissed her cheek, took down a plate, and handed it to her. “I’m glad someone’s having a good morning,” he said, his voice still raspy with sleep, but Roz heard tender amusement under the snark. She smiled, turned the eggs and thought about her return email to Hawkeye.

_‘Lazy Day,’ Spanky and Our Gang_

_‘It Don’t Mean A Thing (If It Ain’t Got That Swing),’ Duke Ellington & Ivie Anderson_


	14. Chapter 14

_November 15th_

_Dear Sydney,_

_It’s been a while since I last wrote to you, so I thought an update was in order. Everything’s fine with the family, and I’m doing all right too—if you could be here you’d probably ask about us all, and really want to know too._

_My main concern is one of my patients. Melissa is proving to be more inaccessible than I’d guessed. A more inaptly-named girl couldn’t be found—she’s not honey-sweet in the least, quite the opposite in fact. She’s more bee-sting than honeycomb, to tell the truth, and locked down tight over a fairly deep clinical depression. It’s been several months since we started therapy, and by the standards of today’s practices I should have put her on anti-depressants some time ago. Still, Sydney . . . something in my gut tells me that in this case, the use of medications would simply be papering over the crack in the wall that’s a warning of serious problems with the foundation. So I’m going to give another method a try before turning to drugs. I’ve found that quite often, the natural world around us is a better healer than anything our too-big brains can think up._  

“Why are we here?”

Sarah smiled a little as she opened the barn door. “I thought you might like to meet some friends of mine,” she said. Melissa rolled her eyes.

“You and a cow are BFFs.” _Somehow that doesn’t surprise me_ was the unspoken corollary. Sarah chuckled.

“Not exactly.” She led the way to Blackie’s stall. Normally he’d be outside at this time of day, but she’d made sure he was accessible. Not that he minded; he had food and water within easy reach and he was protected from the elements, so all was right with his world.

As she opened the door Melissa hung back, clearly apprehensive. “That’s a horse,” she said. Her gaze traveled over Blackie. “A big black horse.”

“Right on all counts,” Sarah said. “You can stand outside to meet him if that’s more comfortable for you.” She smiled as Blackie whickered and nosed her barn-coat pocket.

“What’s he doing?” Melissa sounded nervous now.

“Looking for treats. He’s a terrible pig for carrots and peppermints.” Sarah laughed as Blackie nibbled at the flap. “Yeah, all right, you scam artist.” She took out a peppermint and unwrapped it, put it on the palm of her hand and let Blackie take it. He crunched and dribbled bits of candy as Sarah patted his withers.

“So what’s the point of us being here?” Melissa had recovered some of her attitude. “I’m supposed to bond with that monster or something?”

“I just wanted you to meet a friend of mine,” Sarah said in a neutral tone. “He’s more worried about you though.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me.” Melissa sounded scornful, but under it was a little twitch of interest. Sarah took a chance.

“Horses are prey animals,” she said, and took a curry comb out of her pocket. “The way to get to know them is to show them you’re not a predator.”

Melissa fidgeted for a few moments. “So how do you do that?” she asked with clear reluctance, but the interest had expanded a bit.

“By understanding what constitutes non-threatening behavior to a prey animal,” Sarah said. She ran the comb gently over Blackie’s neck, more for show than anything else, and smiled when he snorted and leaned into her touch. “Humans tend to greet each other face to face with bared teeth and direct eye contact. Most animals see that as an aggressive act.”

“So . . . what would they do?” Melissa asked. She did her best not to sound like she wanted to know the answer, but Sarah sensed she listened carefully all the same.

“They usually approach each other at right or oblique angles, with no direct looks,” Sarah said. “It’s a bit like coming up to someone you don’t know in a social situation and offering your hand to shake, or saying something polite.”

Melissa hunched her shoulders under her coat. “Nobody does that anymore.”

“Okay—well, then it’s like sending someone a tweet or a post for the first time. You don’t give all your information at once.”

Melissa stared at the ground. “Yeah, okay. I get it,” she said, her tone sullen. “This is stupid.” Sarah didn’t take the bait.

“One mistake a lot of people make is reaching out to touch or stroke a horse’s nose. It’s really hard to resist, but they don’t like it. Touching the head is something only the dominant animal in the group does, so again, it’s seen as aggressive.”

Melissa tilted her head and gave Sarah a scornful look. “Where do you touch them then?”

Sarah held up a loose fist. “You offer your hand first with your fingers and thumb tucked under. Let them smell you. Smell is often a much stronger sense for animals. We’re sight-oriented, so we take it for granted that everyone else is. When you offer your hand, the animal will tell you if they’re ready to be touched.”

“I don’t want my arm ripped off,” Melissa muttered. She looked scared again.

“That won’t happen,” Sarah said. “Try with Blackie. He’s pretty good-natured.” Melissa didn’t look convinced. “Come up to him facing to your left and offer your right hand in a loose fist. Once he’s smelled you, I’ll give you a treat and we’ll go from there.”

To her credit, Melissa did as Sarah asked. She offered Blackie her fist, her gesture tentative. The big horse sniffed her fingers, then nudged them gently. Sarah noted Melissa didn’t pull away, though she did flinch.

“Why did he do that?” Melissa asked. The resentment had lifted and genuine curiosity shone through for a moment.

“He’s hoping you have a treat,” Sarah said with a smile. “Here, try a peppermint.” She unwrapped one and gave it to Melissa. “Put it in your palm and hold it out with your fingers flat.”

Blackie took the treat eagerly. As his rubbery lips moved over her palm, Melissa made a noise that could have been a giggle. “It tickles!”

“For some animals, their lips and mouths are like our hands,” Sarah said as she watched Blackie munch. “They’ll come up and smell you, then touch you to say hello.”

“Where can I touch him?” Melissa asked. Her curiosity was stronger now, less tentative.

“Put your hand on his neck, down by his shoulder area,” Sarah said, and smiled when Blackie snorted and dipped his head a bit as Melissa placed a timid hand on his thick coat.

“He’s warm,” she said, and stroked him gently. “Why isn’t he all glossy like the horses on tv?”

“He’s putting on a winter coat,” Sarah said. “It’s rougher because the hairs trap more warm air that way.” She patted Blackie’s neck.

“You know a lot about animals.” It was more accusation than statement.

“They fascinate me. And I like them,” Sarah said simply. “They’re easier to deal with than humans. Once you understand their culture, they’re open and honest and they feel emotions like we do, though not in the same way.”

“What do you mean, ‘understand their culture’?” Melissa moved a little closer to Blackie, who flicked his ears and gave her a look of mild interest—probably to see if she had any more treats, Sarah thought on a silent chuckle.

“Animals have their own methods of greeting, being around family and friends, dealing with strangers, and everything else,” Sarah said. “Learning how they do things is a little like going to a foreign country. Some things are the same, some aren’t.”

“You’re a psychologist. You work with people but you don’t like them?” Melissa didn’t look at her.

“I like people just fine,” Sarah said mildly. “They’re often tough to understand, though. Animals usually aren’t. I find them comforting.” She offered Melissa the comb. “Here. He loves being curried.”

Melissa took it. “How does this work?”

“Just draw it in one direction and don’t push down too hard.” She wouldn’t do much to groom Blackie’s coat, but that wasn’t the point. Melissa did as Sarah directed, and Blackie flicked his ears again but didn’t move otherwise.

“Why’s he doing that?”

“He’s just checking you out. Moving his ears helps him figure out exactly where you are.” A few moments later Sarah heard a familiar chirp and looked down to find Hellboy at her feet. “Hey handsome,” she said, and bent down to scratch the top of his head. The big black cat rubbed against her legs as she stroked him.

“How can you touch him? He’s an outdoor cat.” Melissa watched Hellboy with narrowed eyes.

“The Heebster is very fastidious. He helps keep the barn free of mice and rats, but he does have house privileges here and at our place.” Sarah twiddled his ears. “We’re good friends, aren’t we?”

“So are we gonna meet here from now on?” Melissa wanted to know.

“Well, that’s up to you,” Sarah said. “When I was your age I did some of my best healing in a barn, surrounded by animals I knew were my friends.”

Melissa said nothing for a time. Then she spoke with some reluctance but clear curiosity. “What happened to you?”

“Mostly a lot of betrayal by people who should have been taking care of me.” Sarah straightened. “Working with animals, the rules are simple. Mostly it’s what the old hands used to call ‘cowboy logic’.”

That caught the younger woman’s interest. “What’s that?”

Sarah smiled. “’If it’s a fence, mend it/if it’s a dollar bill, spend it,’” she quoted. “’If it’s a load, truck it/if it’s a punch, duck it; if it’s a job, do it/put your back into it/’cause a little bit of dirt’s gonna wash off in the rain.’” She reached out to gently tug on Blackie’s mane and chuckled when he snorted and shook his head. “’If it’s a horse, ride it.’” She glanced at Melissa. “Let’s say you see three guys in a pickup dressed alike. Which one’s the real cowboy?”

Melissa thought about it, then shrugged. “The one wearing a cowboy hat.”

“Dressed alike,” Sarah reminded her.

“So who is it?” The impatience didn’t hide her eagerness to know.

“The one in the middle,” Sarah said, and deliberately broadened her accent. “He ain’t drivin’, and he don’t have to mess with the gate.”

Melissa bit her lip, but couldn’t stop the small giggle. “That’s so dumb,” she said.

“Pretty smart if you think about it. That’s cowboy logic,” Sarah said. “Good rules to live by.” She didn’t say any more, just busied herself with some mundane chore that didn’t really need to be done.

Melissa’s mom came by a short time later. She looked around with interest, and her pale features brightened. “I haven’t been in a barn for years,” she said, and her soft voice held genuine pleasure. “We didn’t have a horse, just cows.”

“You never told me that,” Melissa said. Her mother glanced at her.

“You never asked,” she said quietly, but there was a spark of humor in the words.

Sarah watched them drive off, then went into the barn. She put the curry comb away and offered Blackie a final treat. “Not bad for a first day as a therapy horse,” she said while he crunched happily. A few moments later she heard Barbarella roar up the driveway, the slam of the door. Sarah closed her eyes for a moment and savored the lack of a limp in Greg’s loping stride. After a moment the subject of her thoughts stuck his head around the door. He gave Blackie a wary look.

“You’re in here bonding with your soulmate.”  

“You talking to me or the horse?”

“Hilarious.” He leaned against the wall and watched her. “Saw your patient on her way home. How’d the session go?”

“Can’t talk about it, as you well know.” She zipped her coat and put on her gloves.

“So that means you won’t come in and make me coffee.” Greg did his best to sound pathetic. Sarah squinted at him.

“You’re perfectly capable of making your own cuppa,” she said.

“I’m not trying to get you to break confidentiality—“

“—which means that’s exactly what you’re doing,” Sarah said dryly.

“—it’s just been a long day and I could use someone to talk to.” He gave her big wide innocent eyes.

“Still a bullshitter.” She shook her head. “Come on, let’s go over to my place. Jason will be home soon.”

They walked together in companionable silence. “Got a question for you,” Sarah said after a moment. “Three guys all dressed alike, sitting in a pickup. Which one’s the real cowboy?”

Greg glanced at her. One corner of his mouth quirked up for a moment. “The one in the middle.”

“You’ve heard the song,” Sarah said in accusation.

“What song?” He raised his brows. “You sit in the middle, you just ride.”

Sarah laughed. “Want my hat?”

Greg looked away. “I’m no hick,” he said, but humor lurked under the harsh words. He hesitated. “What worked for you might not work for her.”

“Can’t talk about it,” Sarah said, and saw him frown, even as his shoulders relaxed just a little.

“Just an observation,” he said.

“Just a fishing expedition.” She softened her reply with a smile. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“You wound me with your baseless accusation,” he shot back, then gave her a sidelong look. “You never have told me much about your early days in the barn.”

“It was the only safe place I had back then.”

“So you’re hoping that will be true for your little patient.” Greg shook his head. “She’s made of sterner stuff.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sarah said, and opened the back door. “Time to change the subject.”

The kitchen was quiet in the weak sunshine. Sarah switched on the light over the sink and took down the canister of coffee grounds. “I just baked, help yourself,” she said, but Greg already had a handful of oatmeal-raisin cookies. He munched while she set up the coffeemaker, and accepted a mug along with creamer and sugar, while Sarah brewed a cup of tea for herself.

“You never used the barn technique on me,” he said as he watched her closely. Sarah allowed herself a slight smile. “Ah . . . yes you did, only it was this dump.”

“You needed a safe place.” She sipped her tea. “You needed a home. So I offered you ours, and you accepted. Eventually.”

“So this was a way to pry me open.” Greg sat back. His vivid gaze searched her face.

“You can be clam-like at times, yes,” Sarah said, unable to resist a tease. He grimaced.

“It wasn’t a genuine offer.”

“Of course it was.” Sarah took a cookie.

“But if it was just a way—“

“Why does it have to be either-or? You think combining a method of healing with an offer of friendship somehow makes both suspect? If I’d pretended to like you, you’d have known it in two seconds flat. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’ve inherited your mother’s bullshit detector gene.” Sarah bit into the cookie. “Mmm, this batch turned out really well.”

“You’re saying you really wanted to be my friend, even after I got you fired.” Greg looked down at the cookie in his hand.

“Didn’t we figure this out already? Yes, I did. Friendship isn’t about not making mistakes or letting the other person down. I did that to you when I shared your journal without asking your permission,” Sarah said quietly. “We’ve hurt each other, but we’re still sitting here sharing a cuppa and feeling completely at ease, because as far as I’m concerned, you’re my friend and my foster kid and my colleague, and having you in my life is one of the best things to happen to me.”

He wouldn’t look at her, but the tops of his ears were red—a sure sign he was both embarrassed and pleased, and unable to say anything about it. “Only one of the best things,” he said finally, and Sarah laughed.

“I _am_ married, you doof.”

“Yeah, me too.” He looked at his watch. “Should be getting back.”

“Take some cookies home with you. Let Roz have one.” Sarah got up. “I’ll get you something to put them in.”

“Thank god! I was terrified you’d make me carry them home in my hands,” he said, but accepted the container when she handed it to him, and made no effort to move away when she put her hand on his arm.

“Love you, son,” she said softly, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. He looked down at her with that little lopsided smile that always tore her heart to shreds. He said nothing, but his eyes held everything he wanted to say. Sarah nodded.

“Thanks,” she said, just as if he’d spoken aloud. She rubbed his arm gently. “See you tomorrow at rehearsal.”

She watched him stride along the path to home; his long legs took up the distance with no effort at all, and she knew his recovery was the best of her life’s work to help someone find healing. When he reached his door she turned away and started dinner as she hummed under her breath.

_So we’ll see, Sydney. Make haste slowly, I’m sure you knew that principle well, even though our mutual friend Dr. Pierce has told me you had to practice the psychological equivalent of meatball surgery with some of your patients. That must have been difficult for you, but if what Hawkeye says is true, most of the time you made it work for those boys. We’ll see if this technique works for Melissa. I hope so. There’s nothing like having a safe place, and good friends with a bond of mutual trust. All my love, Sarah_

 

_'Cowboy Logic,' Michael Martin Murphy_


	15. Chapter 15

_November 24th_

“So what else should we have for Thanksgiving dinner?”

Jason took the silverware Mom gave him and dried them with the dishtowel as he thought over the menu. The kitchen was warm and still fragrant from tonight’s supper—a simple one of baked potatoes topped with things like leftover chili and cheese, to use up odds and ends in the fridge. He liked Sunday night suppers. They didn’t have formal meals, but Sunday night was when everyone pitched in and had fun.

“Applesauce,” Dad said. He stacked the last of the plates into the cupboard and closed the door.

“Already made,” Mom said. She wiped her hands on her apron and began to untie the strings. “I thought this year we could make potato latkes, since Hanukkah starts on the same night.”

“We’re not Jewish,” Jason said, and put the forks away.

“Spoken like someone who’s never had fresh latkes with sour cream and applesauce,” Dad said. He went over to Mom and put his hands on her shoulders, rubbed them gently. “It’s extra work for you, though.”

“I’ll help out.” Jason put the dish towel on its hook.

“I know you will, sweetheart. So let’s see . . .” Mom hung up the apron, went to the stove and put on the kettle—an evening ritual so common Jason hardly noticed it now. “We’ll have turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, cornbread, and latkes. Poppi Lou’s bringing lasagne and salad, and Anne and Mandy will bring pies and a relish tray.”

“Your oldest says he’s doing the beer for once, although I suspect he’ll con his father into splitting the cost at least,” Dad said, and leaned in to kiss Mom’s cheek. “Roz is making a cheesecake. Chase says he and Clare will make a big batch of dinner rolls and cinnamon honey butter.”

“Good lord. We’ll have so much good food inside us, we’ll be rollin’ around like beer barrels,” Mom said. She took a teabag from the canister and put it in her mug. “As usual.”

“You make that sound like a bad thing.” Dad brought her close. “Full house this year again. Are you okay with that?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Let’s go curl up by the fire.” She said it nearly every Sunday evening in the winter, and Jason loved it. He hadn’t, not at first; in the beginning it had felt strange. Gradually he’d figured out it was their chance to just be together as a family. He’d never experienced anything like it before; it felt like moments out of time, as if they’d escaped everyday concerns for a little while.

Of course the fire had to be tended before they could relax—the logs shaken down and embers gathered, while new logs were placed to catch and send warmth into the room. Soon enough a cheerful blaze brightened the hearth. Dad put the poker in the rack and claimed his spot next to Mom. Jason sat in what they all thought of as House’s chair, close by them. Mom relaxed against Dad with a quiet sigh. They watched the fire for a while, content to be with each other.

“I need to talk to you both about something,” Jason said finally. He’d debated about this for some time now, but knew it was something he had to do. His counselor had agreed, and much to his surprise he found her encouragement gave him a little more bravery than he would have had otherwise.

“Okay,” Mom said. She turned her head so she could see him clearly.

“What’s up?” Dad asked. Jason looked down at his feet.

“I need to talk to you about . . . about my—my biological mom,” he said. “If . . . if that’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” Mom said. She didn’t move from her spot, but she rolled on her hip a bit so she was cradled against Dad but faced Jason. She smiled a little at him, her gaze steady. “Take your time.”

Dad looked at him too, his strong features calm. “We’re listening,” he said quietly. Jason nodded, relieved that no one had gotten anxious or weird.

“Okay.” He took a breath. “Okay. Um . . .” He fidgeted, not quite sure how to begin. “After that double date with Mandy . . . The other girl . . . she—“ His throat was dry.

“Did she force you to do things you didn’t want to?” Dad asked softly. Jason blew out a breath.

“Sort of. She—she kept—I don’t know,” he said. “She made me think of what . . .” He fell silent.

“Her actions reminded you of things your mother did,” Mom said. Jason looked up at her, then down again. He nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Before we talk about this, I want you to know that no one has the right to force you to do anything you don’t want to,” Mom said. “No means no.”

“That’s for girls,” Jason muttered.

“It’s for everyone.” Mom reached out to put her hand next to his, palm up. After a moment Jason took it. He made a show of reluctance but in actuality he was glad of the simple contact.

“My mother . . .” He said after a long hesitation. “She . . . she had sex with me.”

“She raped you,” Dad said. There was a steely note in his voice, but Jason knew it wasn’t for him. “Did it happen a lot?”

“When . . . when she was drunk.” He was strongly tempted to push away the memories that came crowding in; he didn’t want them to foul this bright, clean place he and his adopted parents had created for themselves, but he’d started this when he brought up the subject, and he had to finish it. “When she was alone.”

“How old were you when it started?” Mom asked.

“Nine.” He sighed. “It’s stupid to ask why she did it, isn’t it?”

“No,” Dad said. “Everyone who’s been abused or raped wonders that.” He pressed a kiss to Mom’s temple. “How do you feel about it?”

“Like it’s my fault.” Jason couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his words. “Like I should have stopped it somehow.” He waited for their reply, and winced already at the blame he’d surely receive.

“It was never your fault,” Mom said. Her clasp tightened gently. “There is never any justification for rape. Never.”

“Your mother was wrong to do what she did,” Dad said. “No matter what she told you, it wasn’t your fault.”

Jason hadn’t expected that. He felt his throat tighten, and the sting of tears. He looked away, ashamed of his weakness. Mom squeezed his hand again.

“It’s all right to feel angry and confused, and sad,” she said, and he knew she understood exactly what he was going through. He grabbed her hand like a lifeline and hung on tight.

“I don’t know what to do,” he said after a while. “About—about sex. Even kissing.” He thought of Mandy. “If I like someone and want to . . .” He darted a glance at Mom. “How do you—?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Mom said. “Rape is about control and violence. Making love to someone you care about is an act of joy. When you’re with someone you like or love, the feeling is very different.” She smiled at him a little. “Your dad and I are a good example.”

Jason felt his face grow hot. “ _Mom_ ,” he groaned, and Dad chuckled.

“We’re sayin’ it’s okay to feel confused or worried at first. Those old memories will come up, you can’t stop them and you shouldn’t try. But you can make new memories to take the place of the old ones.” He smiled as Mom rested her head against his shoulder. “I’m thinkin’ Mandy would be happy to help out there.”

Jason hunched his shoulders. “We’re just friends.”

“I’d venture to say she thinks along different lines,” Dad said. His gaze held amusement and affection. “You can talk to her about this, you know. She’ll understand.”

The very idea frightened him. Mom squeezed his hand. “Just think about it. If you need help, you know you can come to me and Dad and we’ll be there for you.”

“I know,” he said, and swallowed. “I—I like her too. Maybe . . . more than like. But if she finds out what happened with my mom—what if she doesn’t like me anymore?”

“I doubt very much that will happen, but if it does it’s on her, not you,” Mom said. “I’ve had people walk away from me when they found out about my history. It made me feel bad for a long time, until someone much wiser than me pointed out that I had nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Prof said that,” Jason said. Mom nodded.

“Yes he did. And he’d say the same thing to you. What happened to you wasn’t your fault, my beautiful boy. It wasn’t.”

That stinging sensation had returned. He blinked and tried to hold back the tears. Mom rubbed her thumb gently over the back of his hand. “It’s all right, _m’chridhe_ ,” she said softly.

Jason fought and struggled and finally gave in. He got up and came over, moved blindly and more by feel than sight, and Mom and Dad made room for him. He ended up snuggled between them like a needy five year old, his head on Mom’s lap while Dad rubbed his back.

“I don’t want to think about this anymore,” he said after a long silence, with only the crackling of the fire to fill the quiet room. “I don’t want this stuck in my head forever.”

“You won’t ever get rid of those memories, and that’s a fact,” Mom said. She stroked his hair. “But you can add in good ones. They can set aside the ones that hurt so much. They help give you perspective.”

“So I should talk to Mandy?”

“Only if you think it’s the right thing to do, for you and for her,” Dad said. “We’re not sayin’ you should use her. But I think she might surprise you if you do decide to let her know about this. That’s all I’ll say.”

“The same way you surprised me,” Mom said, and looked at Dad. Jason had a sudden powerful urge to look at someone else that same way. He tried to imagine Mandy in Mom’s place and drew in his breath, startled. She’d been there all along and he’d never seen it, never understood it. He couldn’t take it in. It was like light expanded inside him, bright as the sun.

“Yeah, I’ll—I’ll talk to her,” he said, and wondered how he had the power to make words when he could barely think straight. Dad hugged him gently.

“Well done,” Mom said, and Jason knew _she_ knew, somehow. He took comfort in her knowledge. It would help him when the time came to talk with Mandy. _No_ , he thought. _No, that’s not right._

“Amanda,” he said aloud. Dad gave a soft laugh.

“If you say it to her like that, you’ll make her year,” he said, and patted Jason’s back. “Time for bed. We’ve all got a big week ahead.”

Jason fell asleep easily in the friendly darkness. His last thought was to wonder what it was like to have someone at your side, someone you wanted there, and how it would feel.  


	16. Chapter 16

_November 27th_

“Done for the day,” Greg announces to his executive secretary, head nurse and all-around pain in his ass. Damn, but he _loves_ the chance to leave so early in the afternoon. McMurphy looks up from her work. She sits back a bit and regards him with those dark eyes of hers—there’s amusement, along with the pensive quality that never seems to quite leave them.

“You’re the boss, boss,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow evening.”

“Ah, that’s right. You’re supposed to bring the bourbon cranberry sauce.”

A smile tugs at McMurphy’s mouth. “Ass,” she says. “Go home before you get stuck in a ditch somewhere and can’t walk farther than fifty feet.”

The usual pleasantries exchanged, Greg goes back to his office, puts on his coat and picks up his backpack. He feels an ache in his shoulder as he hoists it into place. Some of it is arthritis, but more of it is the weather—snow and sleet have come down steadily now for the last hour or so, with more predicted for the overnight hours. He feels his age when it’s cold and blustery enough to push his pain levels up a bit. But those numbers are nothing like the ones he endured for so long; he considers himself fortunate to only be heir to the natural consequences of ageing at this point, something he can handle.

It’s raw out when he leaves the clinic. The thick overcast above is tinged with a subtle dirty yellow, a sign there’s plenty of precipitation yet to arrive. Their Thanksgiving will be white—too bad his mother isn’t here to see it, she loves snowy scenes, at least to look at through her living room window. That brings back bits of memory, most of them unwanted; Mom’s gentle complaints about the lack of winter weather in places like Guam, until Dad told her to quit whining. Still, those little mental movies belong in the past now; he can see them and not feel like he’s trapped in the moment, like some prehistoric ant in amber. For that alone he’s forever grateful to his shrink.

He takes a bit more care on the way home since the roads are icy, and pulls Barbarella into the shed just as Sarah emerges from the barn. She’s bundled into her chore coat with a thick woolly cap on her head. She sees him and comes over. “Home early,” she says, and slips the backpack off his shoulder before he can protest. “I’ll come in with you.”

“Yeah, invite yourself over,” he says as they move toward the back step. “You just want to see if you can steal a slice of cheesecake.”

“Projection. That’s what _you_ want,” Sarah says with a laugh. She hops up the steps and opens the door. Snowflakes lie thick on her carroty curls and plaid coat, to melt and sparkle like momentary diamonds. “I want to see your dad.”

Suspicion immediately puts him on high alert. “What for?”

“None of your business, nosey parker.” Sarah pushes past him into the kitchen. “Roz, your husband’s home!”

“Hey _amante_ , your voice has changed,” Roz’s own dark, sardonic voice says from the living room. She sounds amused.

“Call 911,” Greg says. “There’s an intruder. She’s after the cheesecake.”

“More like you are. You _cannot_ have any. It has to set overnight.” Roz sounds like she talks to a five-year-old. This fact is made worse by another sound—his father’s chuckle.

“Delighted you think that’s funny,” Greg snaps, annoyed by what feels like a conspiracy.

“I think it’s accurate,” Hawkeye says. Greg opens his mouth to reply when Sarah puts her hand on his arm. Her look holds both understanding and an authority that, while mild, is also powerful. He subsides, rebellion astir under his silence.

“Do we have anything that might make a good substitute for a sweet tooth?” she asks, and gives him a little caress. He should pull away, should tell her to get out of his face and all the other things he’d do normally, but instead he just mutters a bad word under his breath and glares at her.

“There are cookies in the jar,” Roz says. “I think.”

“She’s saying I ate most of them,” Hawkeye says. “I’ll bake another batch.”

Sarah glances at Greg. It’s clear she’s unintimidated by his glower. “Pretty nice apology for a very mild poke at you,” she says very softly. “He’s trying, son. Give him a chance.” She pats his arm. “Bring everyone over later if you like. We haven’t had a pickin’ session in the living room for a while.”

“You don’t have to coddle me,” he growls at her, because that’s exactly what he secretly wants. Sarah tilts her head just a bit.

“Spending time with you is not coddling, it’s me enjoying your company,” she says, and smiles at him. The quiet honesty in her gaze eases the anxiety that’s built up in him for days now. “When we have a moment, we’ll talk if you like.” She squeezes his arm. “Hope we see you later. Bring cookies. We’ll make popcorn later, after supper when we watch a movie.”

After a few moments, he gives a hesitant nod. “’kay.”

Sarah smiles at him again, then glances at the living room. “You don’t have to be best buds. Just let him get to know you a little. That’s all he wants. He won’t be here forever, you know.” A fleeting sorrow darkens her gaze, and he knows she thinks of her brother. She says nothing more, just turns and slips through the kitchen, out into the early winter darkness. He catches a glimpse of her as she hurries across the driveway to the lane and her own home, where the back door light already gleams yellow against the falling snow. While she’s come to terms with her fear of cold to a large extent, she still isn’t fond of winter by any means, and probably never will be. The fact that she braves it, even for a few moments, tells him how much she cares about him. He feels the knowledge warm him, though he won’t admit it to anyone else.

Instead Greg stays there for a moment and considers what Sarah’s said. He can hear Hawkeye talk to Roz, but it’s not in an undertone—he says something to make her laugh, by her reaction. At first it bothers Greg, but if he’s honest with himself he knows she would not laugh at him behind his back. She’d do it to his face, and he’d probably deserve it too—he usually does.

With a deep breath he squares his shoulders a bit, winces as his sore one complains, and goes into the living room. Pierce and his wife sit next to each other, his father’s lanky frame folded into the extra easy chair they keep for guests. It’s comfortable enough, but he’s so tall he doesn’t really fit, and his big feet get in the way. If anything’s convinced Greg Pierce really is his dad, it’s those feet. They’re long and skinny with almost prehensile toes, and he inherited them, along with the difficulty to find shoes that fit such a narrow foot.

He sits down in his chair and rotates his sore shoulder, and all the while he watches Pierce. The older man looks across at him with a calm expression. His blue eyes—the same vivid blue as the ones Greg sees every morning in the bathroom mirror—twinkle with amusement but no malice. Whatever he said to Roz, it was not demeaning or critical.

“I take it we’re invited next door later,” he says. “Good thing your wife made another batch of cookie dough.” He levers himself out of the chair with ginger but surprising strength. “I’ll go bake some of it now. Jason will probably eat half of whatever we bring.”

Roz watches Pierce amble into the kitchen, then comes over to Greg and sits next to him. She puts her hand on his shoulder, a light, soothing touch. “Sore today,” she says.

“I’ll survive.” He resists the urge to pull away.

“If you don’t want to go, we don’t have to,” she says softly, and that makes him feel even worse because he knows he’s been an ass for no good reason.

“Free food,” he says in a flippant tone he knows tries her patience. To his surprise she smiles at him.

“Not when we’re bringing cookies.”

“I happen to know daddy dearest paid for the ingredients. Therefore, free to us.”

Roz leans back a little. “You know, you’re trying entirely too hard,” she says—a cryptic remark on the face of it, but Greg understands exactly what she means.

“Bullshit,” he mutters, and pulls away. “Gonna get cleaned up.”

“Good.” She gets up and goes into the kitchen, and that makes him wonder what _she_ meant.

By the time he emerges from the bedroom, resplendent in a clean tee, flannel shirt and jeans, there’s a big container of warm, fragrant cookies ready to go, along with a pound of coffee. Without comment Greg takes his coat from the hook and glances down when he hears a chirp. Hellboy sits at his feet and looks up at him.

“Hey, cat,” Greg says, and bends down to twiddle the Heebster’s ears. After a moment the animal puts a paw on his knee—a request for a ride. Greg sighs. “Yeah, come on up.”

Pierce watches this ritual with a shrewd eye. He says nothing, but as Greg moves by him, he reaches out to stroke the cat’s head. To Greg’s surprise Hellboy submits to Pierce’s touch and even throws him an affectionate glance. Clearly the old man’s buttered up the cat as well as Greg’s wife.

They walk in silence to the Goldmans. Pierce looks around a bit as they move down the lane. His step is confident, if a bit slow; he acts like he enjoys this excursion. Of course he’s used to this kind of weather. Greg watches him out of the corner of his eye, fascinated despite his best efforts not to be. This man really is his father. He’d never thought to know who it was, let alone meet that person, even get to know him a little. He shies away from the thought, and yet . . . part of him is fascinated and wants to know: _what’s this man like? And how am I like him?_

They arrive at the Goldmans and are eased effortlessly into the festivities—a supper of pizza and sandwiches, beer and Coke; afterward there’s the promised music session in the living room, with Hawkeye as an appreciative audience, and the kid gets out his sax to play a song, encouraged by everyone—even Greg gives Jason a slight nod at the end. There’s a movie too, _It Happened One Night_ —clearly a favorite with Pierce if his delight is anything to go by. The promised cookies and popcorn are produced and consumed while comments fly, along with a lot of laughter. And later, when Pierce hugs Roz goodnight and says “I’ll see you and Greg tomorrow—you’ll be here first thing, right?” there’s an eagerness there that cannot be faked. The older man glances at him, and in his expression is a fleeting, honest plea— _let’s have a good day tomorrow_. To his surprise. Greg finds he isn’t proof against that silent request.

The next day when they arrive early they find the kitchen in full swing, with Sarah at work on the turkey. Jason brings in loads of firewood, and Gene arrives with last-minute groceries (after he’s dropped off a sizable donation to the food pantry, Greg knows). Pierce cuts the pies. He does it with a precision that bespeaks long skill.

“It was always my job at family dinners. That way the women could keep an eye on me and I couldn’t get into trouble,” he jokes.

“Cutting a pie kept you occupied all day,” Greg scoffs.

“It wasn’t just one pie. There were usually a dozen or more when the full family showed up--everything from pumpkin to mince. I got to whip the cream too. And no, that’s not a metaphor.” Pierce smiles at Greg’s reluctant chuckle. “Those old memories helped during the war.” His smile falters a bit. Then Sarah goes by the kitchen radio, and the next thing they hear is Count Basie’s ‘One O’Clock Jump’.

“Ah,” Pierce says. He pauses to close his eyes for a moment, and Greg knows memories cascade through his mind—another trait they share. “The woman has good taste.” He sighs softly, then opens his eyes and gets back to work without further comment.

Dinner is everything they all knew it would be. Gene stands at the head of the big table, looks over everyone there, grins and says “Good gravy, good meat, good God, let’s eat,” and that is their cue to dig in. Greg piles his plate and watches his father as dinner progresses. Pierce takes his fair share of food and appears to enjoy it, but it’s very clear his focus is on the people around him. He’s completely at ease, his lean features creased in amusement much of the time; he listens with care, makes intelligent replies, and often has everyone around him laughing at his sly wit. But he doesn’t dominate the conversation; instead, he subtly encourages everyone to contribute, even Jason, who usually doesn’t offer two words when none will do.

The cleaning-up afterward goes quickly—or at least Greg sees that it does from his vantage point in the living room. He’s got a full belly and there’s a good game on the tv; he’s not about to ruin his afternoon when there are plenty of willing hands. It is therefore something of a surprise when Pierce settles onto the couch next to him, folds his length into something like a comfortable position, and says with an inquiring air, “Who’s playing who?”

They watch the game in silence, joined eventually by Gene, then Sarah and Roz, and McMurphy. Talk is desultory, limited to the game plays for the most part. Eventually nearly everyone drifts off into a food-induced doze . . . except for his dad.

“So, have you made up your mind about me yet?”

Greg looks at Pierce. The old man regards him with a steady gaze. There’s understanding, a little sadness in those vivid blue eyes, so familiar and yet so different too.

“Hadn’t thought about it,” Greg lies, and turns his own gaze back to the tv screen.

“Bullshit. You’ve done nothing but test me and weigh every action since I got here.” There’s no accusation in the simple statement. “So where do I stand? Want me to stay through to New Year’s or go home on Sunday?”

Greg looks at him again, a bit surprised by this question. “Up to you.”

“No, it’s up to you.” Pierce leans back a bit and folds his hands across his spare middle, a gesture Greg knows well—he does it himself all the time. “Whatever you decide is fine.” And with that he turns to McMurphy, who sits next to him asleep with her feet propped on the couch. With great care and stealth he moves her feet to his lap and covers them with the throw he has draped over his legs. Greg raises an eyebrow, amused despite his best intentions to remain indifferent. Pierce offers a slight smirk, and his vivid blue eyes twinkle.

“Stay,” Greg says, and turns back to the game.

 

_‘One O’Clock Jump,’ Count Basie and his orchestra_


	17. Chapter 17

_November 30th_

Gene unlocked the barn door and paused, a bit surprised to feel a wave of warmth emanate from the interior. He heard the crackle of a fire in the wood stove, and saw light as well. He entered to find Hawkeye Pierce at the cube fridge. The older man turned as he came in, offered a slight smile and raised the bottle he’d just taken. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said.

“Help yourself. That’s what it’s there for,” Gene said, and took off his coat. He hung it on the rack and came into the room. “Thanks for doing the honors.”

“You’re welcome. And thanks in return.” Hawkeye popped the top and took a seat on Greg’s piano bench. He sipped and gave a quiet sigh. “That’s the stuff.”

Gene got a beer of his own and settled into a chair. They had a short time alone before everyone else showed up; he was a little surprised to find not only did he not mind, he actually welcomed this chance to sit with someone he respected and liked immensely. He opened the brew and took a taste, enjoyed the burst of hops and malt on his tongue. He said nothing however, just waited. He’d learned over the last few days that the old man did few things without purpose; there was a reason he’d showed up here, now.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how many tours did you do?” Hawkeye said at last. Gene lowered his beer. From anyone else he’d have viewed the question as intrusive. He knew with this man, such questions weren’t asked lightly.

“Two,” he said quietly. “After the second one I got the hell out, and not before time. You?”

“Just one. It felt like a damn eternity. I’m still pissed at the years that were taken away without my permission. Stupid, but that’s how I feel.” Hawkeye looked down at the keyboard. “I don’t mean to pry, please understand. I know . . . I know what it’s like when people, well-meaning people mostly, start asking you about the military.”

“It’s okay,” Gene said. “What would you like to know?”

“Thanks. Just . . . how are things going for you? Your wife’s been worried. She didn’t say anything specific. And she didn’t ask me to talk with you. But you know how it is.” Hawkeye shrugged slightly. “One survivor of hell tends to recognize another. You’re coming out of a long tough time. If there’s . . . if there’s anything—any way I can help, just say the word.”

“I see. Thanks.” Gene nodded and took a long swallow of beer, pleased by the genuine emotion behind the offer. “It was bad, for a while. I almost lost my family, and that set off a lot of old . . . programming, I guess you could call it.” He stared into the quiet interior of the barn, allowed the peacefulness to touch him for a few moments. “You never get back what you had before you went in, and there are some things that will never heal. Like Frodo and the Nazgul blade,” he said. Hawkeye looked blank.

“Sorry?”

“You don’t know Tolkien?” At the other man’s shake of the head Gene smiled. “Ah. Well, it’s a reference to wounds that can’t ever really heal because they’re cursed by the weapon that caused them.”

Hawkeye nodded slowly. “Yes.” For a moment he looked every year of his age. “They never do heal, not quite. But you learn to live with them, most days.”

They sat in companionable silence for a few moments. Then Hawkeye said, “Would you play me a song? Doesn’t matter what it is. Back in Korea, for a while we had a guy who was a great musician. It made things . . . bearable, for a while. That and the bootleg gin.”

Gene paused in taking the six-string out of its case. “Bootleg? You guys had a _still_? No shit.”

“No shit,” Hawkeye said, and grinned. “I think the end result either killed or cured you. God knows I probably wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gone through several water tanks’ worth of the stuff back in the day. It probably pickled my insides. That and all the scotch I did in later on. My liver could tell you incredible stories.”

Gene began to tune the guitar. “I’ll bet. What did the results taste like? Ass, no doubt.”

“Well, it worked pretty well as a substitute for formaldehyde, so that should give you an idea. I think we sold a couple hundred gallons to the quartermaster to clean jeep engines when one of the batches went bad, and it actually ate the damn paint right off the hoods.”

“ _Jesus_. Sounds smooth as hell,” Gene said on a laugh. “What did you make it from? Rice?” Hawkeye nodded.

“Yeah, mostly. And whatever else we could find that we thought would add something like a good taste. Mostly it didn’t, but we never gave up.”

Gene settled the six-string in his lap. “When in doubt, alcohol is alcohol,” he boosted his brew and nodded at Hawkeye. The older man raised his bottle in response.

“Well said.”

“Got any requests?” Gene asked after they’d finished their beers.

“Nah. Whatever you feel like playing is fine by me.”

Gene strummed, letting his fingers get warmed up. After a few moments a song crept into his mind. He smiled a little. “You know Neil Young?”

“Not personally.” Hawkeye flashed a smile. “He writes good songs?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Gene felt the chords form under his fingers. “I woke up with this playing in my head this morning. Might as well let it go free.” After that the words came easily.

_we’ve been through_

_some things together_

_with trunks of memories_

_still to come_

_we found things to do_

_in stormy weather_

_long may you run_

Hawkeye listened, his face shadowed, intent.

_long may you run_

_long may you run_

_although these changes have come_

_with your chrome heart_

_shining in the sun_

_long may you run_

When the song ended they sat in the quiet for a few moments. Then Hawkeye got up. “That calls for another beer,” he said, and went to the fridge. He took out three bottles and came over to Gene, handed him one. “You too, Greg?” he said, his tone light.

House came forward from the doorway, where he’d apparently stood for some time. Without comment he took the beer, popped the cap and downed a long swallow as his throat worked. When he was done he gave both Gene and Hawkeye a speculative stare. “Old veterans homecoming night, I take it,” he said, his tone sardonic.

“Something like that,” Hawkeye said, unperturbed. He got up and moved to another section of the stage, tacitly offering the piano bench to House. The younger man took the seat, his attention on Gene.

“Interesting choice of song,” he said.

“It’s just what came up.” Gene strummed the chords and enjoyed the feel of the music as it lingered in his hands, his head. “I never knock cheap therapy.” He moved from ‘Long May You Run’ to ‘Harvest Moon’. House began to play the fill-in counterpoint, light and sure as Gene sang the lyrics. The notes moved into the soft darkness, sweet, ephemeral as snowflakes. Gene closed his eyes and remembered Prof’s words.

_“Allow yourself to live in the moment, and to re-live those moments sometimes as well, dear boy. It’s all we really have, when you come down to it.”_

In his memory he saw Sarah’s upturned face, the happiness in her eyes as they danced; felt the warmth of her, her curls against his skin, the soft draw of her breath as they moved over the floor. It was a good moment, a treasured memory now. He let himself fall into it, surrounded by the beauty of his woman and her inexplicable but welcome love for him.

“Gorgeous,” Hawkeye said when the song ended. He smiled at Gene. “You really fell hard for her, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Gene said simply. House said nothing, but the diamond-brightness of his gaze softened a little. After a moment he gave a slight nod.

“Good. She’s worth it,” Hawkeye said. “Now how about something to make even an old man want to dance?”

They were swinging ‘Take the A Train’ when Jay came in. He said nothing, just dumped his coat and took his seat, unpacked and plugged in his bass, tuned up and joined them. Singh did the same, using the song to get his drums set. They were almost done when Jason entered, saxophone case in hand, and Sarah was with him. She immediately came to them and danced the entire way, to stand by Hawkeye, her hand on his shoulder and his arm around her waist. It pleased Gene to see their friendship on such easy display; Sarah had found another father figure. She needed more of them in her life.

“They’re good, aren’t they?” Sarah said to Hawkeye when the song ended.

“Well, they’re not the Duke himself, but they’ll do,” Hawkeye said with a grin. Gene didn’t look at House, but he knew they shared a private amusement of their own. They’d worked in secret on a surprise for the old man on New Year’s; he’d find out about it soon enough. Jason glanced at Gene as he hooked the strap in place. His dark eyes held cautious humor. He said nothing however, just took his note from House and warmed up the saxophone while they got out the playlist and decided on what to practice first.

“Boogie Woogie Santa Claus’,” Jay said, and the others agreed. Jason gave Hawkeye a nervous look, but nodded. When they started off he played the opening riff perfectly, no hesitation or squeaks. Gene knew a fatherly pride in his boy. The kid had worked hard, put in extra hours of practice, and it had paid off. He was about to outgrow his current teacher; Gene had already talked to both the band leader and Sarah about someone for intermediate studies. It would be his main Christmas gift to Jason this year, along with a little financial help for a new instrument.

“This is gonna be some shindig,” Hawkeye said when they were done. “Do you do anything else for Christmas?”

Gene looked at Sarah, who smiled and patted Hawkeye’s shoulder. “You’ll see,” she said. “We’ll put you to work.”

“I’m already sorry I asked,” Hawkeye groaned, but it was clear he was delighted. Gene felt a moment of quiet sadness for the older man. His life was probably fairly lonely at this point, with most of his friends and family gone or far away. At least he’d get plenty of attention here, and more than enough activity to keep him from boredom.

After the practice they walked home under an overcast sky. A few flakes came down, but the real precipitation wouldn’t get there until the small hours—Gene had seen the forecast. He was glad he had a couple of days off with nowhere to go. This time of year made travel more difficult and annoying than usual, and travel delays added to the misery. He was just as happy to stay home and do something as simple as split logs or head into town for groceries and a cup of coffee at Rick’s bakery.

“Back to school tomorrow,” Sarah said to Jason. He nodded.

“Yeah.”

“Not too long till Christmas though, right?” Hawkeye smiled at Jason. “Exams and then freedom for a while.”

Jason offered a tentative smile back. “Yeah, exactly.”

“I always lived for that time off,” Hawkeye said. “It was a breather. Got me through the second semester without exploding.” He looked at Jason’s saxophone case. “You’re in the band, right? How’s it going?”

Gene listened to them talk, heard the older man put the younger one at ease, and smiled to himself. Of all the things he’d imagined during his time in hell, he’d never have thought of this simple moment as the most important one: a walk home with his family and a good friend in the darkness of a winter’s evening, their way illuminated by flashlights amid talk and laughter. _Another moment to live in_ , he thought, and tucked it away, to enjoy again.

_‘Long May You Run,’ ‘Harvest Moon,’ Neil Young_

_‘Take the A Train,’ Duke Ellington_

_‘Boogie Woogie Santa Claus,’ Mabel Scott_


	18. Chapter 18

_December 9th_

Sarah closed the mudroom door behind her and stood against it for a moment. She contemplated her quiet kitchen—the orderliness, the uncluttered counters and empty sink. All of that would change soon enough; today she’d be making batches of gingerbread cookie dough to freeze for baking just before Christmas. She preferred to do this chore early on in the month, as it evened out her workload a bit and gave her a sense of accomplishment, spurious as that feeling might be.

With a little sigh she took off her coat, hung it up and went to the stove. A cup of tea would be welcome, and she’d put on some music too—that always jumpstarted her inspiration. It would have to be quiet since Hawkeye was still upstairs, asleep presumably.

After she’d gotten out the ingredients, her mood brightened. She really did enjoy doing this; the cookies were always a big hit with everyone, and it was fun to distribute boxes of them along with the food pantry donations she and Gene made this time of year.

She’d just put on the _Charlie Brown Christmas_ soundtrack and tied her apron strings in place, intent on a taste of tea before she began proceedings, when Hawkeye said from the doorway, “You look like a woman on a mission. Or a missionary woman, I’m not sure which.”

Sarah finished tying the knot. “I’m sorry if I woke you,” she said, but it wasn’t the truth. She’d looked forward to his company.

“No, it’s all right. I was up a while ago. Force of habit.” He glanced at the coffeepot. “Mind if I make some fresh?”

He was good at it, but then she thought he would be after life alone for so long. Once he’d fixed a mugful he stood beside her and watched as she began to measure out sugar, butter and molasses. “What are you working on?” he asked, and Sarah heard true interest in his voice. For a moment there was the faintest echo of Greg’s insatiable curiosity there, and she felt her throat tighten a bit.

“Gingerbread cookie dough,” she said, and offered a smile. “It’ll go into the freezer for later on. Right before Christmas I’ll bake what always feels like a bazillion cookie men, and then we’ll give them away. But of course we’ll do a test batch now, to make sure everything tastes okay.”

“Of course,” Hawkeye agreed, and sipped his coffee. “You have help with that, right? I bet Greg comes over to give you a hard time and eat as many cookies as he can.”

“Yes and yes,” Sarah said on a laugh. “I usually end up baking two or three dozen so my helpers don’t miss out.”

Hawkeye set down his mug and looked around. “Got an extra apron?” he wanted to know. “I’m handy in the kitchen.”

“You haven’t had breakfast yet,” Sarah pointed out.

“I’d settle for some cookies to dunk in my coffee.” Hawkeye flashed a grin at her and she felt her breath catch; there it was again, that fleeting resemblance.

“Okay,” she said, and struggled not to let her feelings show. “Extra aprons are in the top drawer by the stove.”

Hawkeye clearly knew his way around a kitchen. Sooner rather than later he helped her roll out a batch, stole bits of dough and regaled her with anecdotes about his life in Maine.

“Do you live alone?” Sarah asked, and slid another cookie onto the baking sheet.

“Yeah, but people stop in on a regular basis,” Hawkeye said. “Mostly former patients checking on me. The new doc sends ‘em over. I think he’s convinced they’ll find me camped out in front of the tv with empty potato chip bags and beer bottles around my chair.” He snorted. “No thanks. I spent enough time sitting around bored out of my skull during the war.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re keeping busy.” Sarah gave him a smile. “So what do you do, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“No psycho-analyzing now,” Hawkeye warned. “Everything is grist for the mill of a shrink. I learned that the hard way from Sydney.”

“I promise.” Sarah cut out another cookie.

“Uh huh.” Hawkeye sounded skeptical. She laughed.

“”Okay, then I promise to keep my insights to myself. Deal?”

“No, because eventually I’ll want to know what you think. Oh, I’m so screwed,” Hawkeye groaned, and Sarah laughed.

They’d just taken the ‘test’ batch out of the oven and tasted them with coffee and tea respectively, sitting at the breakfast bar, when Hawkeye said “Greg hasn’t had many pleasant times like this in his life, has he?”

Sarah set down her cookie. “Not particularly.” She hoped he didn’t have searching questions she couldn’t answer.

“Damn. I was afraid of that.” Hawkeye stirred his coffee and stared at the countertop. “If I’d known about him . . . hell, I don’t know. I doubt his mother would ever have given him to me.”

“Would have been tough for a single dad,” Sarah said softly.

“Mine managed pretty well.” Hawkeye offered her a slight smile. “We had a good life. Missed Mom of course, but . . .” His smile faded. “I don’t know. Would it have been better for Greg to be without his mother and not deal with that bastard who abused him?” He sighed.

“You do know you’re asking a shrink for her insights,” Sarah said. Hawkeye stared at her, and it was pure Greg—that speculative, hard-edged gaze. Then he smiled, and Sarah saw what could have been for her foster son, and for his true father too. Sorrow touched her heart.

“Yeah. So I take it back, I do want to know. What do you think?”

She dunked a bit of cookie in her tea. “I think you can ask yourself those kinds of questions for hours on end and come up with every possible outcome, but it won’t do you any good.”

“That’s a cop-out,” Hawkeye scoffed. “Do you think he would have been better off with me or not?”

“I can’t answer that,” she said honestly. Hawkeye made an impatient gesture. “No, I’m not trying to spare your feelings, or Blythe’s either if she was here. I don’t know. Greg might have thrived with you, but equally he could have found life without his mother incredibly difficult.” She hesitated, then went on. “Whatever I might think of Blythe’s parenting skills, she did and does love Greg, in her own way.”

Hawkeye didn’t answer that immediately. “So taking him away from John House wouldn’t have made any difference, is that what you’re saying?”

“I’m saying there are enough variables that no outcome could be considered a given.” Sarah ate her bite of cookie and reached for another one; this batch had turned out as close to perfect as she’d ever gotten. Hawkeye said nothing. He munched his own cookie and kept his gaze on her, his blue eyes just as cool and watchful as Greg’s could be when he contemplated a problem.

“Huh,” he said finally, and Sarah had to laugh.

“Well said. Come on, let’s get the rest of these finished.”

They baked up the rest of the batch as music filled the room, and yet it wasn’t an unfriendly silence for all that. As they washed up bowls and baking sheets Hawkeye said finally, “So . . . you don’t think it would have made a difference.”

“I think it’s better to focus on the time you have with him, rather than what could have been. It won’t do either of you any good to say ‘what if’.” Sarah put a bowl in the dish rack. “Obvious, but there it is.”

“Okay, okay. I get it.” Hawkeye took the bowl and began to dry it with care. “I just—I can’t help but think about it though, you know?” He put the bowl down. Sarah saw his shoulders slump. “I can’t—what if—what if I’d been able . . .”

Sarah tossed her towel on the counter and turned to Hawkeye. She put her hand on his arm and remembered another day, another place under a hot sun, someone else who faced immense pain. “Come on.”

She sat next to him in front of the fire in the living room, and once again watched a strong, proud man struggle with a situation he couldn’t change or escape. “What do I say to him?” Hawkeye wondered aloud. The anguish in his quiet voice broke Sarah’s heart. “What can I offer him, after so many years?” He stared at the fire, then down at his hands.

“Instead of seeing the glass as half-empty, see it as half-full,” Sarah said, and kept her tone matter-of-fact. “You both could have gone your entire lives never having met. But you’re here now, and you’re working toward a relationship. It won’t be the kind you had with your own father, but it can still be a good one.” She rubbed Hawkeye’s arm gently. He reached up to take her hand in his—not to stop her, she thought, but for the simple human contact it offered.

“You really think so? You think he can accept such a . . .” He searched for the words. “Such a poor imitation of the real thing?”

“It’s not a poor imitation, it _is_ the real thing,” Sarah said softly. “You’ll have to go slow with him, let him take it at his own pace. You already know that. I’ve watched you with him. You respect him, and it shows. He sees it too, and he’s more willing to learn to trust you because of it.” She paused and wondered how much more to say. “I’m going through something like this with one of my brothers. We . . . we don’t have much time left,” she squeezed Hawkeye’s hand gently, “but we’re making the most of it. I think that’s what matters.”

Hawkeye bowed his head a bit. “I’m sorry,” he said, and there was genuine compassion in his voice. Sarah nodded.

“Thanks.” She tried to smile. “Guess we should finish up and put the kitchen to rights.”

“Yeah, we should.” Hawkeye’s long fingers held hers with care. “But let me just say this—Blythe may be his mother, but you’re his mom. I’m glad he has you.”

“ _Oh_ . . .” Sarah blinked on tears. “Now I’m all _verklempt_.”

They both laughed at that for a long time, longer than her poor attempt at a joke deserved. When they’d subsided into chuckles Hawkeye said “Let’s get those cookies in the jar and watch a movie or two, what do you say?”

“I say that sounds like the perfect way to spend a cold, snowy day,” Sarah said, and leaned in to kiss Hawkeye’s cheek. “Thanks,” she said softly. He smiled down at her, his blue eyes bright.

When Greg came over later that afternoon, it was to find the two of them crashed out in the living room as they discussed the merits of Bette Davis’s performance in _Now, Voyager_. He perched in his easy chair with a pair of gingerbread men in hand; caution warred with amusement as he studied first Hawkeye, then Sarah.

“You have nothing better to do than sit around and watch tv,” he said, and bit into a cookie.

“The fact that you’re eating fresh gingerbread should suggest otherwise,” Sarah said mildly. “I have today off. For the rest of the week I’ll be working with clients and—other things.” She avoided Greg’s mocking gaze.

“Guess I’d better invite the old fart here over for dinner or my wife will beat me up,” Greg said after a brief silence.

“I’ll take that invitation and raise you dinner out,” Hawkeye said. “Give your beautiful wife a break, she works hard all day.”

“And I don’t?”

“You’re a doctor,” Hawkeye said, as if that explained everything. Greg tilted his head, intrigued.

“Explain.”

“A good doctor is like water—he follows the path of least resistance.”

Sarah snorted. Greg rolled his eyes. “And hands out cryptic bullshit remarks,” he said, but there was genuine humor in his tone. “We could always eat at Lou’s.”

“The kid’s working tonight, right?” At Greg’s nod Hawkeye went on. “It would be a good chance to observe his behavior. He’s got the chops for pre-med, but you and I know there’s more to it than that.”

“Hey--that’s my youngest son you’re talking about,” Sarah said. Both men looked at her in surprise. “Observe all you want, but don’t mess with his head.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “As if.”

“Uh huh. I mean it.”

“Oh boy,” Hawkeye said. He gave Sarah a glance crammed full of innocence. “We wouldn’t.”

“You’d better not.” Sarah folded her arms and glared at them both.

“Feisty,” Hawkeye said to Greg.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Greg said.

“Don’t you start,” Sarah warned him. “Fine, mock me all y’all like. Just remember Santy Claus is visitin’ this house with your presents, and if you keep this up you’re both likely to get a stockin’ full of coal.”

“Wow, get her all riled up and you get that accent,” Hawkeye said, his tone full of sly humor. “Total country bumpkin.”

“You know, when she’s really mad her hair glows,” Greg said. “I saw it once. Sort of a rusty color. Like glow plugs on a diesel engine.”

“No kidding, that actually happens? I’ve heard stories.”

“Ooooohhh!” Sarah spluttered. She got to her feet and was tugged back down.

“Relax, firecracker. We’ll leave the kid alone, don’t worry. We value our balls too much,” Hawkeye said, and laughed. After a moment Sarah joined him. Greg watched them with a slight smile.

A short time later the two men walked over to Greg’s house. Sarah stood at the window, her hand on the curtain to hold it back. It dark already, the early dark of winter, and a light snow fell. Hawkeye said something and Greg laughed, gestured, and Hawkeye laughed in turn. Sarah smiled; they would be all right. She let the curtain fall, and went into the kitchen to make dinner.


	19. Chapter 19

_December 13th_

“Hey dude, take five. Everyone’s covered for the moment.” David offered Jason a grin. “I made you some slices with sausage and olives on extra cheese.”

“Thanks.” Jason put the last of the plates in the sink, sprayed them down to soak, and took off his apron. It was too cold to eat on the back step of course, but he could use the small table by the kitchen door, where most of the staff took their breaks. He’d have to make it quick since it was Friday night and they’d be packed—it was already busy, but in another hour the place would be crammed with people, and he’d be on his feet till closing.

He’d just taken a seat with the plateful of slices and a Coke when he saw Mandy come in and stop for a few moments to talk with Marge. He swallowed on a dry throat as several different feelings rose up inside, and watched as she came to him. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone as beautiful as Mandy was, with her cheeks rosy from the cold and her eyes sparkling.

“Hey,” she said, and eased into the seat across from his. “Mom and I are in town shopping, I asked if I could stop in to see you for a few minutes. How’s it going?” She glanced at his plate and wrinkled her nose, but her expression was more teasing than serious. “Sausage, _ew_.”

“ _I_ like it,” he pointed out, relieved to find he could at least act normal, even if his heart thumped in his chest. “Grocery or Christmas shopping?”

“A little of both.” With the familiarity of old friendship, Mandy picked an olive off the top slice and munched it. “Mmmm. So what are you gonna get me this year?”

The words dried up, just as he’d feared they would. He’d been racking his brains for ideas, and had come up with nothing. He wanted to give her something special, something meaningful . . . “What do you want?” he managed to say at last. Mandy looked at him in mild surprise.

“I don’t care,” she said after a moment. “Whatever you want to give me is fine, you know that. You always find something perfect.” She meant it too. Jason knew this was it. With every bit of courage he possessed, he reached out and took her hand in his.

“Please tell me what you really want,” he said. Mandy went still. Her gaze moved down to their hands, where his fingers clasped hers in a gentle hold. She didn’t say anything right away, but Jason saw her throat move once, twice.

“I think you . . . you just gave it to me,” she said finally. Her gaze lifted to his; her blue eyes were bright, as if they held stars. The joy he saw there shook Jason. It mirrored his own, and he hadn’t dared to expect it. Then she made a noise that he realized was a sort of laugh, made of equal parts disbelief and delight from the sound of it.

“Friday the thirteenth,” she said. “I’ll never believe in bad luck on this day ever again.”

“I have rehearsal with Dad and the guys tonight after work,” he said eventually, and was surprised to find his voice sounded so normal. “It’ll be late when we’re done, but if it’s okay—I’ll call you.”

“Um—yeah, as—as long as it’s not after ten. School night, you know how Mom is.” Her fingers tightened gently on his. “I’d like to talk.”

Jason nodded. “Me too.” It was a lie, it was the thing he most wanted _not_ to do, but he also knew it was necessary.

“No you don’t,” Mandy said, and then she smiled. It was a little shaky, but it was a real smile all the same. “Thanks for saying you’ll do it.” She hesitated. “I have to go.”

After she’d left Jason polished off the slices, did in half the Coke, and went into the back with the empty plate. David put the last fork in the dish rack and wiped his hands on his apron.

“Four large pies and ten double orders of fries for the drama kids,” he said. “Check the tickets. I have the dough ready to go. You get everything in the oven, I’ll work the fryer.” He gave Jason a mild look. “Quite a conversation you had going there.”

Jason felt his face grow warm. “Yeah,” he muttered.

“Don’t worry, I’m not spying on you. I’ll just say you’re lucky. Mandy’s a beautiful young woman, inside and out.” David’s smile widened. “Back to work, and try to keep your mind on pizza, okay?”

Jason moved the other pizzas aside to slide the last pie in the oven when Poppi Lou came in. He worked one or two nights a week now, mostly in the back with accounts, though he put on an apron and pitched in when they got busy. He’d lost some weight and looked better now, with more good color in his cheeks and a clear, steady gaze. At the moment he smiled a little; it was obvious where Roz had gotten her strong, lean features, and her dimples too.

“You and Amanda,” he said, and nodded. Jason closed the oven door and dusted his hands, resigned to the fact that the entire village would know about what happened within the hour. He didn’t care though, at least about anyone except the people who cared about him, and her too. _Girlfriend_ , he thought. _I have a girlfriend._

“Me and Amanda,” he said, enjoying the sound of it. “Yeah.”


	20. Chapter 20

_December 16th_

It was a bright Monday morning, and the sun shone out of a clear blue sky over fields of fresh snow. Hawkeye drove Sarah’s truck down the road and took care to avoid potholes and icy spots. He’d been allowed to use Minnie Lou over the weekend to complete his Christmas shopping; they now had a good relationship with respect on both sides. Minnie was a lady, and he liked her. “I’ll make sure you get a good wash at the end of the week,” he told her as he pulled into the clinic parking lot. “No road salt on you, babe.”

He chose a space near the side door—he was old enough to claim it after all, and he really didn’t want to navigate a slippery parking lot. There were plenty of vehicles here, so it looked like everyone was in attendance today. _This should be interesting,_ he thought, and entered the building.

McMurphy was the first person he saw. She wore dark green scrubs printed with colored Christmas lights. When she saw him she raised her brows. “Good morning,” she said. “Bright and early, I see.”

“No, that would be six thirty, not eight thirty,” he said, and raised his brows at her in turn. “Any chance of some coffee?”

“In the kitchen,” she said, and offered a smile that reached her dark eyes. “There are doughnuts in with the team. If you hurry you might actually get one for yourself.”

“You didn’t save any out for me? I’m so disappointed.” He grinned at her.

“Get your own doughnuts,” she said tartly, and came a little closer. “Let me take your coat.”

He removed his muffler and coat and handed them to her. McMurphy accepted them. Her fingers trailed lightly over his arm. “Nice sweater,” she said. “Come on, this way.”

Hawkeye knew perfectly well where the conference room was, and McMurphy knew it too, but he let her guide him all the same. He stayed right behind her, and when he passed her to go into the room his thigh brushed hers. She sent him a stern look, but there was amusement in her gaze. “I take it back, just doughnuts. You’ve had enough caffeine,” she said, and went out, to shut the door behind her. Hawkeye chuckled softly, and turned to the people at the table.

“Good morning,” he said in an affable tone, and found a seat at the opposite end, away from where his son probably sat. “Mind if I have a doughnut?”

They all looked at each other. “Go ahead,” Rob Chase said finally. “We don’t stand on ceremony here.” He sat back, his gaze steady. “You know everyone, Doctor Pierce?”

“If we’re not standing on ceremony it’s Hawkeye,” Hawkeye said amiably. He took a doughnut and a napkin. “Where’s your fearless leader?”

“He won’t be in for at least another hour,” the woman—Chandler—said. There was a hint of resigned disapproval in her voice. Hawkeye thought fleetingly of Hot Lips. There was certainly no physical resemblance, but the attitude was almost exactly the same. “Did he invite you? We have to observe doctor-patient confidentiality, you know.”

“Executive privilege, and yes, I was invited,” he said aloud, just to see what the woman would do. Sure enough, she gave him a look he knew all too well. Hawkeye offered her a bright smile. “I can show you a photo of my medical license—the one I bought at WalMart. Would that help?”

The Indian doctor, Singh, gave a discreet cough. “In the meantime, we have plenty of files to check out,” he said dryly, “as always.” He indicated the stack of folders. “Help yourself and let’s get started.”

Hawkeye ate half the doughnut in one bite, leaned in and took a folder. He ignored Chandler’s frown and flipped the file open, gave it a quick scan. The information offered took him out of his easy mood. “Jeez,” he said under his breath.

“We get a lot of kids,” Chase said quietly. Hawkeye nodded. An old memory rose up; children who lay too quietly amid the chaos of triage, so tiny on the big stretchers. “What do you have?”

“Ah—looks like problems with language development in an eighteen-month old boy.” Hawkeye scanned various notes. “Seizures of unknown origin, accompanied by inability to retain short-term memory.”

“’Unknown origin’?” Chandler leaned forward, her expression intent. “No MRI or CT scans? X-rays, anything?”

“An MRI and CT, both inconclusive.” Hawkeye sighed softly. “The parents must be worried to death by now.”

“I didn’t know your middle name was Cameron.” Greg stood in the doorway, still in coat, gloves and hat, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He shot Hawkeye a sardonic look. “Worrying about the parents doesn’t help the kid.”

“I disagree,” Hawkeye said mildly. “Get some coffee and we’ll talk about it.”

After a moment Greg gave him a brief nod and disappeared. Chase looked at Hawkeye with dawning respect. “Impressive. If you have any secrets you’d like to share . . .”

Hawkeye shrugged his shoulders. “Just being me,” he said, and checked notes again. “They’ve seen six other doctors over the last six months. There’s been little to no progress with learning words . . .” His voice trailed off. “I wonder.”

“What is it?” Singh wanted to know as Greg came in, mug in hand. He went to the other end of the table, sat and propped his feet on the tabletop.

“Yeah, enlighten us.” The sarcastic tone should have stung, but Hawkeye heard the interest beneath the tone.

“I remember some years ago, a mother came in with her little boy—same symptoms. I looked him over and couldn’t find anything obviously wrong, but it was clear there was a profound problem of some kind, just hidden where I couldn’t get at it. So I had Joyce—the kid’s mom--take him to a colleague of mine in Boston. He eventually diagnosed Fragile X.”

There was a brief silence. “That’s not an easy diagnosis to make at this age,” Singh said. “Most of the definitive markers don’t show up until puberty.”

“True,” Hawkeye said. “I’d suggest ordering an FMR1/DNA. Also, look at the family history, see if there are any male relatives with difficulty—“

“Okay, okay,” Greg said, and waved a dismissive hand. “We get it. Let the kid’s doctor know,” he said to Chase. “Next.”

Hawkeye handed the folder to Chase, who took it and made a note, then rose to slip out of the room.

“Good, now we can talk behind his back.” Greg slurped his coffee, selected a doughnut and took an enormous bite. “Wonder if he’s going to move in with the domestic.”

“She’s not a ‘domestic’,” Chandler said, clearly indignant. “And we’re supposed to be going through files!” She opened her folder with a snap. “Post-adolescent male—“

“I thought you weren’t interested in males,” Greg said in perfect innocence. Chandler glared at him.

“I’m bisexual, not a lesbian,” she said with ice-cold clarity. “Post-adolescent male with flat red patches of skin on buttocks—“ She stopped, shot a look at Greg, who said nothing but looked back at her inquiringly. “Flat red patches of skin and some plaques on buttocks, groin and hips. He says they’re intensely itchy.”

“And that’s his excuse for having his hand down his pants,” Greg said. “Any raised red or purple-red nodules?”

Hawkeye listened as the differential continued, and felt that old double sense of intense interest and sadness wash over him. He’d left surgery because of the powerful memories associated with his time in Korea; fortunately he hadn’t seen too many rare cases like this as a GP or he might have had to leave medicine altogether, so he wouldn’t be buried under the weight of the pain hidden in those deceptively plain folders.

“Deep thoughts,” Greg said. Hawkeye looked into his son’s vivid eyes—so much like his and his grandfather’s.

“Sounds like an incomplete observation,” he said. “Has anyone taken samples from the patches, checked for abnormal cells? Physically examined the patient for further signs?”

Greg glanced at Chandler, who checked the notes. “Yes, yes and no,” she said. “You’re thinking lymphoma? A non-Hodgkins form?”

“Couldn’t say until I or someone else got a good look at those patches. A lot of things can masquerade as pre-cancerous conditions. They should be eliminated first.”

Greg let his satisfaction show this time. “Agreed. Get the young man in here and let’s get started. Not you,” he said to Hawkeye with a glint of humor in his eye. “You’re the guest. Let the employees handle it.”

Chandler nodded as Chase came in. “I’ll have copies of the file ready for everyone within the hour.” She and Singh got up and went out as Chase sat down again. He snagged a doughnut.

“Called the primary care physician in Connecticut,” he said. “Blood test’s being set up now. She’ll let us know.”

Greg shoved the rest of the doughnut into his mouth, took a couple of token chews, swallowed. “Like it matters,” he said, but Hawkeye sensed it did, for completion of the puzzle if nothing else.

“There’s room for another patient,” Chase said. “We have an empty bed.” He reached for a file on top of the stack.

“One’s enough for the next couple of weeks,” Greg said. Chase looked at him. Then he pulled his hand back.

“Okay.” He picked up his doughnut, took another bite and pulled the stack of files to him. “I’ll go through these and look for any more easy fixes. It never hurts to play Santa now and then.” He glanced at Hawkeye. “Care to join me? An experienced eye would be welcome.”

“You can dump your workload off on him soon enough. Make yourself scarce for five minutes.” Greg turned his gaze back to Hawkeye. He waited until Chase had left the conference room before he spoke again. “You’ve been with my shrink long enough to pry all my secrets out of her. The wife says it’s time for you to stay at our place and drive us insane until you decide to leave.”

“Now there’s an invitation,” Hawkeye said dryly. “Your wife wants me to come over, but how do you feel about it?”

Greg shrugged. “Makes no difference to me,” he said, but Hawkeye sensed anxiety behind the words.

“Listen, I can stay with the Goldmans for the duration if it’s easier,” he said. “I didn’t come here expecting some kind of father-son reunion, okay? I’m not pushing for closeness or—or anything like that. This . . .” He gestured at the room around them. “This is what I was hoping for, that you’d show me your practice, let me sit in.”

Greg stared at him for a full ten seconds. “You’d be satisfied with that,” he said at last.

“Yeah.” Hawkeye eyed the box with several doughnuts left. He reached out to take one. “As long as you keep the free breakfasts coming.”

Greg narrowed his eyes. “Not free,” he said. “You’ll work it off with Chase.” He hesitated. “Bring your stuff over this afternoon. Roz will be home, she’ll set you up in the spare bedroom.”

Hawkeye nodded, pleased. “Okay. Thanks.”

Greg said nothing, just got to his feet. He left the room, to return with a bottle of Booker’s. Without saying anything he tipped a generous shot into his coffee cup, then looked at Hawkeye, who held out his mug. Greg added a shot; they drank, and Hawkeye savored the smoky-sweet taste with the excellent coffee.

“Damn, if I knew you started mornings off like this I’d have visited a hell of a lot sooner,” he said. Greg snorted.

“Mooch. Make yourself useful and get the blond back in here. Keep your hands off the hired help while you’re at it.”

Hawkeye rolled his eyes as he stood. “I’m not working for one shot and no hot sauce,” he said. “Gotta let me have some fun.” He went to the door. “There’s another item of business between us, you know. The kid.”

Greg gave him a considering look. “Passing on pearls of wisdom.”

“Teaching him to lighten up. He’s so damn serious about everything, he’ll never make it through med school with that attitude. You know it, I know it. He needs some help in the humor department. We’re just the ones to give it to him.”

“Maybe.” But Greg smiled now, though his expression hadn’t changed. _It’s his eyes,_ Hawkeye thought. _He’s like his grandfather that way—he smiles with his eyes first._ “Get busy.”

“Yes, boss.” Hawkeye salaamed and went off to the kitchen, delighted to find he was at ease here at last.


	21. Chapter 21

_December 23rd_

Roz topped off her coffee, closed the lid on the travel mug, and took a last glance around her quiet kitchen. She’d be home late; today would be a longer work day than usual, but she planned to take Christmas Eve off. They’d go out with Greg’s dad to get a tree and decorate it, and then dinner at Poppi’s place. The thought warmed her, even as she felt the anxiety behind it. Greg was still not too comfortable with that particular ritual; the addition of his father’s presence would make things even more uncertain.

“Good morning,” Hawkeye said behind her. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Roz enjoyed the sight of him in his pjs and ancient flannel bathrobe, his white hair tousled in exactly the same way as Greg’s always was when he first woke up.

“Good morning,” she said softly, and returned his smile. “What are you up to today?”

“Some last-minute shopping in town. I’ll ride in with Greg.” He yawned. “We’ll see you at lunch, right?”

“I’ll do my best,” Roz said, and stood on tiptoe a bit to kiss his cheek. He beamed down at her.

“’Santa baby,’” he sang, and she laughed. It was their private joke, one they both enjoyed even while Greg rolled his eyes at them.

“Be careful on the road,” she said. “I’ll bring you something good for lunch.”

She listened to Springsteen on the way to her first job, an older-house renovation just begun the week before; the music and the hot coffee woke her up enough to wish a mostly-sincere good morning to the on-site workers. Everyone was cold, grumpy and half-asleep, but she ignored them and got busy. Predictably, she spent the first two hours in an unheated attic, then in the basement. The wiring was appalling, but she’d expected that; farmers generally didn’t have the money to keep things updated over the years, with the results she saw now.

So she jotted down her recommendations and ideas in the battered little paper notebook she carried around in her jumpsuit pocket—more reliable in rural locations than a phone or tablet, with no dependence on cell towers, or batteries to die at the worst possible moment—and started a list of supplies. It was a good thing she was an independent contractor and not part of the main renovation team; the guy in charge was known to cut corners. She’d buy her own stuff and keep a running list for the owner to check if he wished.

At eight she took fifteen minutes and finished off the last of her coffee, along with two of Sarah’s excellent sugar cookies, the only escapees from a batch sent home with Greg. She savored the buttery sweetness and thought of the next couple of days. She secretly loved the search for a tree; despite his grumblings over the chore, she knew Greg at least enjoyed the chance to give her a hard time, if nothing else. She was a little nervous about Hawkeye in attendance for the decoration process, but they’d manage. So far her father-in-law had proven to be adept at defusing tense situations, mainly through the use of honesty and charm in equal amounts—a tactic her husband respected, even if he mocked it relentlessly. Roz hoped that method continued to work. If Greg could be counted on for anything it was to test limits and push people to see how far he could go with them before they broke. Hawkeye had been equal to anything Greg threw at him, but things could change with enough prodding . . . She polished off the last cookie and dusted her fingers. Anyway, tonight was band rehearsal. It would take up most of the evening, and by the time they got home Greg would undoubtedly want a hot shower and bed. Mondays tended to tire him out more than he would ever admit.

She went back to work and set aside thoughts of the enjoyable days ahead, to work out the considerable problems she faced with replacement of and an upgrade to the wiring in the old farmhouse.

[H]

“Do you usually let someone else handle talking with the patient about the diagnosis?”

Greg shoots Pierce a look as he turns at the four-way stop. The older man sounds calm, but there’s a note of something in his words—it’s not clear exactly what it is, so Greg chooses to call it censure.

“No one’s come up with an answer yet,” he says, and doesn’t bother to hide his defensiveness.

“I understand that,” Pierce says, still in that calm way. “But when you do get it figured out, who tells the young guy?”

“I usually look at whoever’s logging the most clinic hours. More clinic hours equals more guilt over mistakes.”

“You are so full of it!” Pierce chuckles. “You choose whoever’s handy so you don’t have to do it.” Now there’s accusation there, maybe. It’s hard to tell. Greg decides there is.

“And you happen to think because I run the place, I should be the one to deliver the bad news.”

“No, actually I get why you don’t,” Pierce says, to Greg’s surprise. “It’s a good reason. You need the distance, because it helps you see the big picture.” He hesitated. “It’s just . . . now and then you should do it, you know? Stay in practice.”

“What I find interesting is your supposition that because you’ve been in my life now for all of five minutes, you get an opinion,” Greg says. There is a little silence.

“Uh _huh_ huh,” Pierce says. It is a peculiar vocal tic of his, meant to indicate skepticism or disbelief. “You invited me to a ddx, but you object to this?”

“Personal,” Greg points out.

“Bullshit,” Pierce tosses right back. “A ddx is personal to you too, if in a slightly different way.” That takes Greg back a bit, because it’s true and he’s never considered it before. “You think I’m finding fault when I asked a simple question.” Pierce sighed softly. “Well, it’s your thing, you do it. I’ll put up with it because it’s part of who you are, and it makes you a good diagnostician.”

“But not a good son. You aren’t the first one to say that.” There’s the taste of an old and familiar bitterness in those words.

“Actually I wasn’t thinking that at all,” Pierce says. There’s no hostility, just that quiet calm Greg finds so incomprehensible.

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” he says, with that rare impulsiveness that’s gotten him into so much trouble in the past. The moment the words come out he wishes he could call them back; he sounds like he’s about five years old. He hates showing any sign of weakness in front of this man, or anyone else for that matter.

“I don’t have any reason to be,” Pierce says quietly. “Yeah, you’ve pushed me at times, but I figure it’s part of who you are. If you go too far I’ll let you know.”

“So there is a too far with you,” Greg says slowly.

“Of course there is. There’s a too far with everyone. You just reach it faster with some people, that’s all.” Pierce sighed a little. “If you have to find mine, go ahead, but you’ll be sorry.”

“Now you’ve just taken all the fun out of it,” Greg whines.

“Hah. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

They arrive home before Roz for once. The kitchen is quiet, though Hellboy gives them a warm welcome. Greg is amused to see Pierce talk to the cat the same way his wife does. The old man even offers the Heebster a few tidbits of chicken along with fresh water.

“Why don’t we make dinner tonight? It’ll be a nice surprise for Roz,” Pierce says.

“You wanna cook, be my guest,” Greg says. “The extent of my contribution will be opening a beer.”

He does just that—settles in the living room and pops the top on his beer, and watches tv as Pierce putters in the kitchen. Greg doesn’t want to admit it’s almost as pleasant to have someone (his dad) open cupboards and the fridge and create the delicious fragrance of supper, as it is to have his wife do it. He gets a secret amusement out of Pierce’s habit of back-talk to the reporters on the NPR station while he works, and to include the cat in the conversation.

Roz comes in around six thirty. Greg hears the door open, the sound of her cheerful voice and the scrape of her boots on the mat, the thump of the toolbox being put away and the jingle of her keys hung up on the hook, and Pierce greeting her with great enthusiasm. There’s a hug, and then she’s coming toward him in the soft semi-gloom of the living room, still in her coat. She looks tired but pleased. Without a word she sits on the couch next to him, leans in and gives him a kiss. He returns it, watching her—something he often does, just for the pure enjoyment of seeing her long lashes lie on her cheeks. She smells of dust and oil, laundry soap and herself, a faint muskiness of which he never tires.

When the kiss ends she says against his lips, “Just for being lazy, you can pour me some wine.”

“We have a dad here for that,” he says, and savors her chuckle.

“Nope,” she says, and nuzzles him. “There’d better be a glass of red sitting on the night stand when I get out of the shower, buster.” She pulls back a bit and the light of laughter in her eyes amazes him, as always.

When she gets out, he makes sure she does indeed find a glass of red there for her. It’s a tumbler of water, a piece of red paper tied around it with some ribbon from her package-wrapping supplies—not the greatest joke he’s ever pulled, but the best he can do on short notice.


	22. Chapter 22

_December 24th_

Gene eased his way down the stairs as he walked on the ends of the treads so they wouldn’t creak too loudly. The house was quiet, though he knew that wouldn’t last long; today was destined to be a busy one. They’d decorate cookies for the food pantry donation through the morning, with delivery in the afternoon. After that they’d be at the fire hall to get the buffet set up and final sound check for the band . . . He smiled at the thought of the playlist; they’d put a lot of effort into some new tunes along with the traditional favorites. And they had a nice surprise ready for House’s dad as well. Jason was nervous, but he’d worked hard on his solos and would do a fantastic job.

In near silence Gene passed by the tree. They’d decorated it the night before, and Sarah had recorded it all for her brother. She’d done well and even managed to enjoy herself to some extent, but afterward he’d found her upstairs in their bedroom, where she tried her best not to break down. He’d held her until she fell asleep in his arms, had watched her for a long time. He’d do what he could to help her through the days ahead.

He took the time to clean out the grate in the living room fireplace. They usually kept it fairly tidy but it would see a lot of use over the next few days, so it was best to clear out any accumulated ashes now. Fortunately it didn’t take long; the ashes from last night’s fire were cold, and would make a nice addition to the front and back steps, both icy from melted and trampled snow.

Once that chore was accomplished, Gene began to stack the logs and kindling. Jason had brought in a good-sized supply of both, which would still have to be replenished several times till New Year’s. Neither he nor his son minded the chore; while the fireplace wasn’t their sole source of warmth it represented the spirit of their home, just as the kitchen was the heart.

He’d nearly finished when he heard someone on the front step, and then the sound of the alarm code being put in. Gene stood and dusted his hands. He approached the door just as it opened to reveal Gordon Wyatt, resplendent in a wool overcoat, silk scarf and leather gloves, an overnight bag in hand, his head covered with flakes of snow. “Prof,” Gene said, and felt a quiet relief mixed in with happiness. He came forward and reached out to take the bag. “You drove all night.”

“Yes indeed, my dear boy. I’ve got all of two days off and intend to spend as many moments of it in celebration as is humanly possible.” Gordon beamed at him from a tired face. “Might I trouble you for some tea? And a biscuit? It was quite an arduous journey. You Americans and your snow, it’s really quite over the top you know.”

Gene took the bag, and put a hand on Gordon’s shoulder. “Tea and biscuits, got it.” He offered a smile. “Thanks for coming.”

Gordon gave him a keen look as they moved to the kitchen. “That bad, is it?”

Gene felt his face grow warm. “No, I didn’t mean it that way. Well—not completely.”

“My dear boy, I understand.” Gordon unbuttoned his coat as Gene went to the stove and put on the kettle. “May I inquire as to the day’s schedule?”

Gene outlined the list as he gathered a plate and a respectable pile of cookies, along with a mug and a teabag. He made the cuppa when the kettle whistled, careful to put the milk in before the boiling water, and handed everything over with a smile. Gordon took a gingersnap, bit into it and closed his eyes in bliss.

“I really must nick that receipt from her collection,” he said through a mouthful of cookie. “Which room do I occupy this time around?”

“Take the one next to ours. It’s warmer than the others.” _And Sarah will like having you close_ , Gene thought.

“Yes,” Gordon said quietly. Gene glanced at him, startled. “It’s a logical line of thought—just what I’d expect from you,” Prof smiled, and stirred his tea. “Speaking of logical beings, where’s your boy?”

“Out cold. He was up late last night, practicing for tonight’s gig.” Gene yawned and went to the cupboard, found the coffee and took the package to the pot. “I’m surprised he’s able to do anything at all. He and Mandy are a couple now.”

“Ah, how delightful. I look forward to seeing the two of them together, it’ll be a treat for a chozzled old cynic like me.” Gordon put a spoonful of sugar in his tea and topped it with some extra milk, took a sip, and sighed softly. “Perfect.” He glanced at Gene over the rim of the mug. “Eugene, I don’t believe you’ve ever told me what your own family traditions were and are for this holiday.”

Gene dumped another scoop of coffee grounds into the filter. “No, I haven’t.” He put the basket in place and turned on the heater. “Mostly it involved a lot of drinkin’ and yellin’. Don’t really care to keep that sort of thing going.” He poured in the water and closed the top. “It’s enough to be home with my family. For many people that’s more than they’ll get any day of the year, let alone Christmas.”

Gordon didn’t say anything at first. “You’re quite right, dear boy. Quite right.”

Prof had nearly finished the cookies when Sarah came in. At the sight of him her face brightened. Without a word she went to him. He stood and enveloped her in a gentle hug; his hand cradled the back of her head, a father’s gentle gesture. Gene smiled at the sight. He topped off his coffee, added some brown sugar, and headed off to check his inbox, feeling a little lighter of heart than he had when he’d woken.

[H]

“Here, make yourself useful.”

Greg pauses as a bag full of icing is placed in front of him. Sarah looks down as she passes by. He’s glad to see the worry line gone from between her brows—down to her father figure’s arrival, no doubt.

“Thanks,” he says, and puts the nozzle in his mouth to take a huge gulp of royal icing. Sarah shakes her head at him. A moment later a hand wipe is slapped down next to his pile of cookies.

“Don’t use that bag on anything until you’ve cleaned it. And stop hoggin’ the icing, you’ll get a bellyache.”

“Stop hoggin’ the icing,” he says in falsetto, and gets a thump on the top of his head. “Hey!”

“Smartass. Decorate,” Sarah says tartly, and pats his back. Greg picks up the bag and looks down at the pile of cookies, then over at the other people in the decoration crew. Pierce sits with the Brit and Roz; they all talk and laugh together. He feels . . . well, the way he always does when he’s involved with this kind of thing, which is why he doesn’t get involved.

“Hey,” Roz says. She’s moved in next to him. Before he can say anything she puts a dot of icing on his bottom lip with her pastry bag, then gives him a kiss. It’s sweet even without help. When it’s done she decorates a gingerbread man, sets it aside. “That one’s ours,” she says. “Now let’s get busy.”

Greg knows he’s just been managed, but he doesn’t care. If it gets this chore done that much faster, fine by him. And then of course, his phone rings. It’s ‘Dancing Queen’. Roz looks over at him, brows raised in surprise. He shrugs and answers it. “What?”

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Wilson says in that dry way of his, and Greg can’t help but smile.

“Don’t tell me you’re on the doorstep.”

“Not unless it’s a doorstep in Pescadero.” Wilson hesitates. “I just—I wanted to see how you were doing. We haven’t talked in a while.” He pauses. “I hear other people—you’re at Sarah’s? Cookies,” he says before Greg can answer. “You’re decorating those damn gingerbread things.”

“Jealous,” Greg says. “Of course, on your side I hear Ray Conniff. Better you than me.”

“Kris likes it. I’m a Jew, what do I know?”

“I taught you better, but if you’re gonna settle for that crap you get what you deserve.” Greg watches Roz put a perfect row of buttons on a cookie man’s jacket. “How’s the Left Coast?”

“Boring.” Wilson laughs. “Never thought I’d be homesick for cold and dreary, but it just doesn’t seem right to be sitting under olive trees with lights in them.”

“You’re coming back.” He knows it, he doesn’t even have to ask.

“Later this spring, yeah. I think so. It’s something Kris and I have to talk about.”

“Whoa. You mean . . . talk? As in sit down and discuss?” Greg snorts softly. “Holy shit, don’t tell Bonnie. She’ll rip your head off and piss on the stump.”

“Nice.” Wilson sighs. “I’m trying, House. Okay? You’re not the only one who’s learned to change.”

“Need I remind you, this isn’t a competition,” Greg says.

“I know that now. I’m just saying. So . . . the band’s playing tonight, right? The big dance at the fire hall?”

“Yeah,” Greg says.

“Okay, good. If—if you don’t mind, I—I might call you and if you’d . . . if you’d let Kris and me listen to a few minutes?”

“Sarah’s recording the whole thing,” Greg says. “She’ll send you the vid.”

“That’s great, but . . . we’d like to be there, even if it’s just for a minute or two. If it’s all right.”

Greg sits back and smiles a little. “What’s it worth to you?”

“Hah. I should have known you’d make me pay,” Wilson groans, but Greg hears the amusement under the complaint. “Fine. I’ll mail you a beer.”

“A case. It’s my phone battery that’s being drained.”

“You’re still buying new phones when the power dies?” Wilson wants to know.

“Never you mind. Just send me the money. You’ll buy some frou-frou pale ale that requires a whole pineapple and a little umbrella to make it taste good.” He waits a moment. “Call at nine our time.”

Wilson doesn’t answer right away. “Thanks, House. See you then.” And he’s gone. Greg ends the call, puts his phone away, picks up the cookie Roz reserved, and takes a big bite.

“How is he?” Roz asks quietly. Greg picks up his cup of coffee and washes down the mouthful of spicy baked dough and sweet icing.

“He’s Wilson,” he says, and allows himself some satisfaction in that simple truth.


	23. Chapter 23

_December 24th_

“It’s gonna be a great night!”

Sarah’s the one who says it, but everyone agrees, even Greg. It took the work crew all afternoon to get everything set up, but the hall looks good—the big Christmas tree with smaller ones here and there, the buffet line and tables around the main dance floor. The place is packed to the rafters, with more coming in; this might be the year they have to turn people away. There’s already talk of two dances on consecutive nights next year to accommodate everyone, along with New Year’s.

Greg glances over at the members of the band. They’re all ready to go; the last sound check was excellent, they’re set up as well as they can be under the circumstances. Gene makes eye contact, gives a nod, and counts them off. “One, two, one two three four!”

They launch into the Ventures’ version of ‘Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town’ and really bash it up, surf garage band style. Sandesh is in his glory on this one, as is Gene, who uses the Gretsch to great effect. Greg has the keyboard on the Hammond organ setting, and Jay lays down a fantastic walking bass line. When they smash out the last four chords the whole place erupts in cheers. Gene gives everyone a grin.

“Welcome to the biggest and best Christmas dance in the southern Adirondacks!” he yells, and they swing right into ‘Hey Santa Claus’. As they begin Jason steps out from his spot hidden behind them and launches into his first song of the night. He’s nervous, Greg can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead, but he plays that first riff perfectly, and when they get to his solo he nails it, bluesy as hell. At the end the audience roars its approval, they stomp their feet and whistle so that the kid has to come back out and take another bow, his face scarlet. As he does so Greg switches to the piano setting; they all put on Santa hats, then Sandesh counts them off and they begin ‘Twinkle (Little Christmas Lights)’. At the end they key the little switches that activate the colored LED lights on the hats and also makes them blink, which brings down the house of course.

“Okay, time to get the couples out on the floor,” Gene says, and they move into ‘Please Come Home for Christmas’, nice and slow. Greg sees Roz at work on the buffet line in her dark green silk sweater and black velvet slacks; she has on one of the extra Santa hats. The bright lights blinking merrily as she glances up at him and smiles, and he knows she wishes they could be out on the floor together. They’ll dance later, first in their living room, and then in the bedroom, his dad be damned. When Greg plays the bells at the end of the song, they’re for her, and she knows it.

They keep it mellow with a cover of the Drifters’ version of ‘White Christmas’, and Jay does the honors for the lead vocals. They’re fortunate to have him with them tonight; he sports a cast on his right ankle, the result of a fracture from a fall on the ice. His playing might be just a little looser than usual because of the painkillers he takes, but he feels no pain in another way—he’s already had a couple of women fuss over him, and enjoyed every moment of it too.

When the song is done, Jay gives the spotlight to Sarah, who comes up to sing ‘I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm’—not a Christmas song strictly speaking, but perfect for the season, and the couples on the dance floor love it. Greg catches a glimpse of Pierce with McMurphy, the two of them on the periphery. They move together very nicely, and both enjoy it if their mutual smiles are anything to go by. Greg wonders how much longer it’ll be before they’ll share a bed. Pierce might be in his mid-nineties, but he’s clearly still got appeal for the opposite sex. It gives Greg hope for his own love life if he ever makes it to that age. Undoubtedly Roz will still be around, which is fine by him. As long as she’s willing to put up with him even when he’s wrinkled, bald and covered with age spots, he won’t have any complaints worth noting.

Sarah stays onstage to sing ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’, and Gene uses the Gretsch to make the song rock. By the middle of the first stanza almost everyone is out to dance, even the little kids. The joint is jumpin’, and it feels great. Of course at the end Sarah takes some mistletoe out of her pocket and holds it over Gene, to give him a kiss which he returns with enthusiasm; it’s become their tradition now, one the audience loves. When the kiss ends she counts off, Singh picks it up, and they move right into ‘Boogie Woogie Santa Claus’. Jason gets another solo; to see his mom beam with pride at his playing is even better than the applause he gets, if the boy’s expression is anything to go by.

Of course that has the kid warmed up for the surprise they’ve created for Pierce. While they don’t have a full horn section, they can make do pretty well. “For our guest of honor, Doctor Benjamin Franklin Pierce,” Gene says with a grin.

“Long may he wave!” Pierce shouts from the back of the room.

The first song is a straight-forward version of ‘Stardust’, done in the style of Django Reinhardt and Coleman Hawkins, with Greg taking Stephane Grappelli’s piano part—it’s a little slower, a little more bluesy than the original, but Jason handles it well. They go into the next number, ‘The Tennessee Waltz’, straight off Gene’s old copy of Billy Vaughn’s _Golden Saxophones_. During the applause at the end, Sarah comes forward once more to sing ‘Button Up Your Overcoat’. It’s a song a bit older than Pierce’s generation, but Sarah chose it because Pierce told her his mother used to sing it to his dad. Sarah is a woman of hidden talents; she does one of the best Helen Kane imitations Greg’s ever heard, right down to the ‘boop boop a doop’.

_button up your overcoat_

_when the wind is free_

_take good care of yourself_

_you belong to me_

_boop boop a doop!_

_when you sass a traffic cop_

_use diplomacy_

_just take good care of yourself_

_you belong to me_

_beware of frozen ponds oo-ooh_

_stocks and bonds oo-ooh_

_peroxide blondes oo-ooh_

_you’ll get a pain and ruin your bankroll_

_keep the spoon out of your cup_

_when you’re drinking tea_

_take good care of yourself_

_you belong to me_

Through the applause and cheers Pierce comes down to the stage. He reaches out to shake Jason’s hand and say something to him, something that makes the boy nod and clutch his sax. He looks freaked out and delighted at the same time. Then Pierce takes Sarah’s hands in his and lifts first one hand, then the other to his lips.

“Twenty minutes for the band to grab some beer!” Gene announces, and it’s intermission.

When they come back they start off with an instrumental version of ‘Jingle Bell Rock’ to get everyone out on the floor. That gives Rick a chance to sneak into the back of the hall by the big tree. He’s Santa Claus again this year, and once the kids see him that’s it, he’s mobbed. Sarah and Roz are his helpers, to hand out gifts. The band plays ‘Santa Claus Is Back In Town’ while this madness goes on, they riff on the melody until everyone’s settled in with their goodies and the noise level is down somewhat. The whole place knows what comes next anyway, and they’re eager to hear Chelsea Butterman’s solo.

It’s amazing what a difference a year makes. Chelsea has gone from little child to young girl in that short space of time. She will be tall, taller than her mother, slender and fair like her dad. Her voice already shows signs of an extended range, with excellent flexibility; Greg has worked with Marti and Rob Butterman to vet teachers, and placed her with someone who will encourage Chelsea’s growth as a musician and still respect her need to be a child.

Now she hits her mark, looks at Greg, and waits while he plays the introduction. She is charming in red and green, her blonde hair held in place with a glittery plaid headband, but when she begins to sing everything falls away but the sound of her voice, pure and clear, and utterly true. She has chosen to sing ‘What Child Is This’. The simplicity of the song suits her; she’s begun to learn about expression, and the result is astonishing. In twenty years’ time she’ll tour concert halls all over the country, if not the world.

When she is done, there is a full ten seconds of utter silence in the hall, and then she gets a standing ovation. As always, Rob comes up to take her to her family as Gene says “Chelsea Butterman, ladies and gentlemen. She’ll be singing the solo in church tomorrow at the service.”

They do the carol sing after that—‘Joy to the World’ and ‘It Came Upon A Midnight Clear’, ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ and at the end, ‘Silent Night’. Greg sees his wife, his foster mom, his father and the Brit all sit together, and while he won’t go as far as to say the sight gladdens his heart, he feels a warmth there he won’t put a name to.

It takes time to get everything packed up and put away while the party-goers all head off to their own homes, but at least it’s all done until New Year’s Eve. “See you tomorrow,” Sarah says. “Come over when you like, we’ll do a buffet and presents will be ready whenever you are.”

The drive home is a quiet one, with only one comment from Pierce: “You guys really know how to throw a party. That was more fun than I’ve had in years.”

The house is silent, but there’s a light on in the kitchen, and another in the living room. Pierce takes off his coat and hat, puts everything away, and without another word, goes upstairs.

“Admirably discreet of him,” Greg says, and turns to his wife. “I’d like this dance.”

“There’s no music,” Roz points out.

“We don’t need it.”

They move together in the gentle shadows, as Roz’s rests her cheek on his shoulder. “You’re right,” she says after a few moments, and brings him closer.

_‘Santa Claus Is Comin’ To Town’, the Ventures_

_‘Hey Santa Claus’, the Moonglows_

_‘Twinkle (Little Christmas Lights)’, JD McPherson_

_‘Please Come Home For Christmas’, the Eagles_

_‘White Christmas’, the Drifters_

_‘I’ve Got My Love To Keep Me Warm,’ Billie Holiday_

_‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree’, Brenda Lee_

_‘Boogie Woogie Santa Claus’, Mabel Scott_

_‘Stardust’, Django Reinhardt, Coleman Hawkins & Stephane Grapelli_

_‘The Tennessee Waltz’, Billy Vaughn_

_‘Button Up Your Overcoat’, Helen Kane_

_‘Jingle Bell Rock’, Bobby Helm_

_‘Santa Claus Is Back In Town’, Johnny Lang_

_‘What Child Is This’, traditional arrangement_

_“Joy to the World’, ‘It Came Upon A Midnight Clear’, ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, ‘Silent Night’, traditional arrangements_


	24. Chapter 24

_December 25th_

The first faint grey light of morning had just begun to steal into the room when Roz woke. She squinted at the clock, then snuggled down into the warm nest of bedclothes, pleased to sleep in. Greg was still asleep—a rarity, he usually woke when she did. He looked tired but at peace for once; she watched him for a little while, content to have him close. Then she eased out of bed, took her bathrobe from the chair and went into the kitchen. She knew Hawkeye was already up; the fragrance of fresh coffee filled the living room as she passed through.

Hawkeye sat at the kitchen table with mug in hand. He looked out the window at the snowy scene beyond the glass. When Roz came in he glanced at her and smiled, but Roz could tell he wasn’t much more awake than she was. In silence she got herself a cup of coffee, came to the table and sat down next to him. They didn’t speak for a while. It was one of the things Roz liked about Hawkeye; you could talk or not talk, and he was all right with it—much like Poppi, although Roz thought it was something the older man had learned over the years. He had Greg’s restless nature, a sort of relentless need to know that drove everything he did.

“Merry Christmas,” Hawkeye said after a time. He offered a smile, but it was a pensive one.

“Who are you thinking of?” Roz asked quietly.

“My mother.” He sat back a bit. “I don’t think there’s a day that goes by, even after all this time, that I don’t think of her.” He sipped his coffee. “Greg has his grandmother’s gift of music. Mom always sang, at least . . .” He sighed a little.

Anything Roz would have said in return was forestalled by Greg’s entrance. He stood in the doorway and glared at them for a moment, then stumped over to get a mug, fill it with coffee and exit the kitchen.

“Such a bundle of joy,” Hawkeye said on a chuckle.

“It takes him a little time to wake up,” Roz said.

“I bet if he had presents to open he’d wake up a lot faster.”

When Greg came into the living room a short time later, he found his father and wife on the couch with gifts piled on the coffee table. Before he could say anything Roz took the stocking from where it sat next to her, and held it up. Greg’s eyes widened slightly. He darted a glance at Hawkeye, who lifted his own stocking. “I thought you’d never get out here,” he said with a grin. “No one’s done one of these for me since I was ten. Come on, I wanna see what’s in it!”

Roz watched as Greg slowly sat down next to her. He took the stocking, careful not to let it spill. “You have one too?” he wanted to know. Roz patted the stocking next to her. It bulged with goodies.

“Of course. You know this is Sarah’s big thing.” She didn’t add that this year she’d been invited to join some of the shopping trips, an honor her friend didn’t bestow lightly.

So she watched as her men took out treasures of all kinds—polished stones for paperweights, enameled pens, flash drives in various shapes and colors, small puzzle books and games, a bagful of green plastic orcs for Greg, a slingshot for Hawkeye, and loads of chocolate and candy, with an orange in the toe for each of them.

“This is great!” Hawkeye said, and popped a chocolate truffle. “Go on, sweetheart, show us what’s in yours.”

Roz took the stocking in her lap and removed a small package from the top. It was wrapped in floral paper that wasn’t from any of the rolls she and Sarah had used . . . Roz untied the blue silk ribbon and opened the paper, careful not to tear it. Inside lay a little enamel box, the pastel colors soft and charming, outlined in gold on a white background.

“ _Oh_ ,” Roz said on a breath. She had admired this dainty many times from its perch in the window of the jeweler’s shop one town over—but she had never told anyone, not another living soul, so how . . . ? With fingers that trembled just a bit she opened it with care. A tiny bird rose up and turned as it sang, the simple notes sweet and soft. Then it disappeared once more.

“Wow,” Hawkeye said. He gave Greg an approving nod. “Nice work, Santa.”

“Pffft, wasn’t me,” Greg said, but he offered Roz a slight smile.

There were more delights—a silk scarf the color of oak leaves, light as a cloud; tiny carved-wood containers of beeswax lip balm and hand salve; a new notebook for her work, the pages fresh and crisp; a pencil sharpener shaped like a fish; handfuls of _baci_ and caramels, lemon drops and a bag of pistachios, new pencils, chocolates.

“We made out like bandits,” Hawkeye said when she was done. “I bet Sarah’s working on hers right now.”

“Hope she likes it,” Roz said, and leaned back against Greg. When his arm settled around her she closed her eyes, content. “We’ll go over in an hour or so.”

“Make it two,” Greg said, and put his feet up on the ottoman.

[H]

Jason put another small log on top of the newly-rebuilt fire and settled it into place with the poker, then put the screen back and removed his chore gloves. It was bitterly cold outside; light snow fell from a grey overcast sky, but it was cheerful in the living room with the fire and the lights from the tree, as well as lamps around the room. He glanced at the presents, and felt that familiar anxiety clutch at him. With a silent sigh he turned toward the kitchen, intent on a snack of some kind. Mandy wouldn’t come over until after her mom got off work, sometime around five probably. They would exchange gifts then . . .

He swallowed on a dry throat and went to the fridge. It was quiet here; Mom and Gordon were off to rest after a busy morning. Jason took some genoa salami and cheese out of the keeper and made a sandwich, slapped it on a plate, added an apple and some gingersnaps, and sat at the breakfast bar. He munched, but didn’t pay much attention to what he ate; the same question came up in his thoughts. _What if she doesn’t like what I got her?_ He’d never really worried about it before, but now . . .

“Hey,” Dad said from the doorway. He yawned and scratched his head. “What’s good?”

He ended up making a sandwich and sat next to Jason. “Awful quiet down here,” he said. “You look worried.”

Jason blinked. “I do?”

“Yeah. Is this about that present you got for Mandy?”

“Yeah . . . how did you . . . ?”

“Most guys worry about what they get for their women,” Dad said. “In your case however, you got no problems.” He took a big bite of sandwich.

“Why?” Jason picked up a cookie. Dad swallowed and took a long slug of Coke.

“She loves you,” he said. Jason felt his face grow warm.

“She could still hate it,” he said.

“She won’t. You could give her a picture you finger-painted on used butcher paper and she’d think it was great. And I happen to know you got her something a lot nicer than that.” Dad smiled at him. “You’ll see. When your mom and I were dating, I gave her a little silver ring for our first Christmas. She still wears it on special occasions, and she keeps it polished. You’ve seen it.”

Jason nodded. “Okay,” he said, cautious but in need of the reassurance.

“You’ll see,” Dad said again. He picked up his plate. “For some people it’s the emotion behind the gift, not just the money value. Come on, let’s go watch a movie or something. All the chores are done, and you’ll just moon around unless you keep your mind occupied.”

Jason had cause to remember Dad’s words a few hours later, when he gave Mandy her gift. She opened it with care, and when she saw what he’d given her, her face brightened in a way he’d never seen before.

“You asked my mom to make this,” she said. Her voice sounded a little weird, as if she didn’t quite have control over it or something.

“Yeah—I hope that’s okay,” he said, as his anxiety level went up. What if it was stupid to give a homemade present like that?

“It’s okay,” she said, still in that weird tone, and then held it up. It was a necklace made of semi-precious stone beads and little fresh-water pearls on a gold chain, amethyst with green aventurine, the pearls and smaller gold spacers. Mrs. Faust had used beads with less intense colors, almost pastel, and the effect was delicate and charming.

“Would you put it on me please?” Mandy held it out. Jason took it, waited as she turned, moved aside her thick, dark brown hair, the strands like silk under his fingers. He put the necklace in place and fastened the little lobster clasp. She turned back and caught his hands in hers; her touch was gentle. He tensed as he waited for her to lean in and kiss him, but she just said “Thank you, Jason.” When he looked into her eyes though, he saw his dad was right after all.

[H]

Greg takes another beer from the fridge, pops the top and goes into the living room. The picking session is about to start, and he’s ready to sit and relax, play a little music and be glad this stupid holiday is over for another year, even while he enjoys all the good things that same stupid holiday brings.

On his way back he pauses in the doorway, half-hidden in the shadows, and watches the others. Goldman and Sarah are already settled in, Gene with a dreadnought, Sarah with her mandolin; Roz sits on a big square pillow on the floor next to his easy chair, and holds the Martin six-string for him as she talks with Pierce, who has claimed the other easy chair and turned it to give him a nice view of the musicians. Anne Faust sits next to Pierce, and doesn’t say much; she looks tired but content. Her girl is next to her right leg, seated on the floor on another of the big square pillows, and beside her is Jason. They don’t hold hands, though both of them wear predictably sappy expressions. That’s something of a surprise in the kid’s case, but first loves tend to swamp young minds with the potential for logical thought. Hell, romantic blather and the sexual urge drowns good sense in males of any age, he’s living proof of that.

Greg takes a long swallow of beer and is a bit surprised to find a need to dissect this situation. Clearly the mellow effect of good food and alcohol has made him maudlin—but what the hell, why not? So he lets his thoughts run on, just to see what comes up.

Four years ago he couldn’t even bring himself to sit in the circle of musicians, couldn’t think of himself as any part of this little group of people. And yet somehow, through some alchemy of persistence and myopia, they have become his family. He still has his mother, and her sister and the cousins and second cousins, all of that blood relation; but they have never been family the way these people have, and are. He still wonders why the hell they bother, he’s not worth the effort they put in on a daily basis, he’s hopelessly fucked up and always will be. But another part of him knows they know that, and they just don’t care, apparently. It seems, for some reason he’ll never fathom, they like him anyway and are determined to give him the chance to find . . . well, he won’t go as far as to call it happiness, but—peace of mind, that fits as a definition, for lack of anything better to call it.

Roz looks over at him, and her smile glimmers in the light. Just beyond her Sarah gives him a quick glance. She doesn’t smile, but he sees the understanding in her gaze, the warmth in her expression, and knows without these two women in his life he would probably be dead or well on his way, a lonely, painful and lingering exit with no point to it except to make the people around him as miserable as he undoubtedly would have been.

And that’s enough introspection for one night. It’s clear from that last thought that he’s moved into unforgivably sentimental territory, and he’ll fight that battle all evening if prior experience is anything to go by. Besides, whether he wants to admit it or not, he’s part of this group now, and they’ll wait for him to join them before they start. While he’s not averse to a bit of attention now and then, he likes to keep it on his terms, not anyone else’s.

So he moves into the living room and sits in the chair—his chair, over the years it’s become just that, in the first home he’s ever really had—and takes the guitar, feels his woman’s warm, slender body relax against his legs as he strums and tunes and listens to the flow of talk and laughter around him. And then the music begins and they settle into the songs, greet them as old friends and renew their acquaintance, and the evening slides away in the company of soft, flickering shadows.


	25. Chapter 25

_December 30th_

_Dear Sydney,_

_we’ve nearly made it through the holidays yet again this year. For me it’s been the usual mix of anticipation, dread, sorrow and enjoyment, all in equal measure. Anticipation because of the good things that happen with my family and friends; dread because of old memories that are fading, but still strong; sorrow because my brother won’t be here much longer; and enjoyment because I love and am loved, and life doesn’t offer anything better than that._

_Well, a good book, a comfortable chair and a cup of tea comes close. But definitely second place._

Sarah paused, took a sip of tea, and looked out over her back yard. Jason and Mandy were outside to add onto the fort constructed throughout the weekend. They had plenty of material to work with, as a storm system had dumped another few inches of snow overnight, and more to come during the day. In fact it had started to snow again. Sarah watched them, and sighed softly, her hands wrapped around the comforting warmth of the mug.

She and Gene had decided against the Keys in January. With a young man headed for college and medical school, it was likely they wouldn’t see palm trees for years to come. She was all right with that—Jason deserved every penny and far more, but she missed the warmth, the beach, and the ability to move about unencumbered by multiple layers of clothes. With a quiet sigh Sarah set down her mug and picked up her pen.

_We won’t be on vacation again this year. That sounds like a complaint, but there’s more pride than you’d think in those words, Sydney. We’re saving our money for our boy’s schooling. He’s going to make such a fine doctor. We can see it in him already. He’s observant, intelligent, and compassionate without allowing his emotions to carry him away. It’s our privilege to help him realize his dream. We couldn’t be prouder of our boy._

‘Our boy’—those words struck home. Her heart full, Sarah looked down at the letter. How often she’d longed to say or write that phrase; so had her husband, she knew. And now through a quirk of fate no one could have anticipated, she and Gene had a son, the best young man in the world. She looked out on that young man now as he laughed and dodged a snowball from his girlfriend. It was good to see him laugh; he was a serious young man, too serious most of the time, but in the last year he’d begun to find the humor in things a bit more often.

It had begun to snow harder now; large fat flakes swirled past the window. Sarah watched as Mandy stuck out her tongue to taste one, and smiled a little.

_He’s also just discovered his first love, and we are delighted to find he’s just as sappy about it as anyone else his age would be. Given his background, that wasn’t something we thought would happen._

_I’m also proud of him for another reason, Sydney. He told his girl about his childhood. No details, just the basics, but even that was a huge leap of faith for him. And for her too._ Sarah paused, remembered Jason in the kitchen, anxiety mixed with hesitant hope as he paced back and forth. A slight smile touched her lips at the memory. His faith had been rewarded; Mandy had asked questions, had shown him how much the information hurt her, because he’d been hurt. But she had stayed with him, and in the end Sarah had seen them on the couch together as they talked quietly.

_We’ll see what happens, Sydney. Maybe they won’t need to look for anyone else. Sometimes it happens that way, though growing older changes things. Anyway, for now they have each other, and Gene and I couldn’t be happier for them both._

_So we head into another year—not exactly a blank slate, more like an appointment book with plenty of open hours and all the opportunity in the world. Life is incredibly good, and we are blessed beyond measure. That’s plenty to start with._

Sarah lifted her head at the sound of shouts, and a growl of laughter—Greg was pelted with snowballs as he came down the path. He ducked, bent and made one, whipped it at Jason, his lean face creased in a grin. Sarah caught her breath at the sight of her oldest foster son as he enjoyed himself. While he was more inclined to do so, it was still rare to see him open up this way. The genuine happiness there was the best gift he could offer.

She watched him as he made his way to the house, his coat white with the marks of Jason’s excellent aim. After a moment she opened the top drawer, took out the homemade folder in which she kept her correspondence, and frowned a little.

Greg entered the office a few minutes later, a mug of coffee and plate of cookies in hand. He stopped in the doorway at the sight of the folder in Sarah’s hands.

“Good morning,” she said mildly. “Have a seat.”

He hesitated, then advanced into the office with caution. He took Gene’s seat, placed the plate and mug with care on the desktop, then faced her. “Problem?”

She held up the folder. “What did you think?”

His expression was priceless. Defiance, amusement and wariness warred with a faint sense of guilt. Defiance won out, of course. “Sentimental, emotional, and completely illogical. About what I’d expect.”

“Uh huh.” Sarah kept her gaze on him. “There’s a new one hot off the presses. Want to read it?”

For answer he held out his hand. Sarah gave him the folder. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and took her mug with her into the kitchen to make more tea, and find a few cookies for herself. When she returned it was to find the folder placed neatly atop her keyboard. She tucked it into the top drawer, gave her tea a stir and bit into a shortbread.

“No words of reproach? No recriminations, no scolding? I’m impressed.” Greg ate a cookie, watching her.

“I knew it was a matter of time,” Sarah said calmly. “All things considered, I think I’m taking this quite well. Which makes me wonder, how would you feel if I came into the clinic, grabbed a handful of folders and started reading them for light entertainment?”

“I’d expect notes,” Greg said. “If you want some from me, I can provide them.”

Sarah looked down her nose at him, and did her best to hide a reluctant amusement. “I don’t need crib notes from you of all people. What I do need is a promise you won’t use what you’ve learned.”

“ _Moi?_ You wound me to the quick.” Greg ate another cookie and slurped some coffee. “I supposed you’re worried most about the kid.” He gave Sarah a keen look. “How bad was it?”

“You’ll have to ask Jason,” Sarah said. She took a nibble of shortbread. Greg sat back.

“That bad,” he said. Sarah kept her expression impassive. “Is he gonna be able to handle sex?”

“Greg,” she said quietly.

“It’s a legitimate concern,” Greg shot back. “He’ll be under a lot of pressure in med school and facing the usual temptations along with it. If he implodes halfway through, we’ll have a mess to clean up.”

Sarah raised her brows. “We?”

“Yes, ‘we’. I’ve already begun investing in him, so he’s a joint project.” Greg chose an oatmeal-raisin cookie and bit into it. He stared at her as he chewed noisily.

“That still doesn’t give you the right to know anything he doesn’t choose to disclose,” Sarah pointed out. “You sure as hell haven’t told him anything about what John did to you.”

Greg flinched. It was faint, but she knew her oldest well enough by now to read his body language. “Different circumstances,” he said quickly.

“Financially and culturally, to some degree, yes. In attitude, not by much. And that’s all I’ll say.” Sarah dunked her shortbread in her tea and munched. Greg gave her an accusatory glare.

“You are no fun.”

“Ethical behavior sucks,” Sarah agreed cheerfully. She polished off her cookie. “The kids are coming in. Wanna play Hearts with us?”

Greg groaned. “I’d rather hack off a finger.”

“Suit yourself.” Sarah got to her feet. “See what I did there?”

“So, so clever,” Greg mocked. He stuffed the last of the oatmeal cookie into his mouth and stood as well. “Have to go to work and put in an hour or two.”

“I’ll see you at rehearsal tonight then,” Sarah said. As Greg came past her she reached out and put a hand on his arm, kept her touch light. “Thank you.”

He paused to look at her. It was clear he was surprised by her action. “For what?” he said harshly, and she saw the same sort of anxiety Jason had displayed in the kitchen the night before.

“For caring,” she said. “I know you’re also motivated by curiosity. That’s all right. Just be careful with what you know, okay? That’s all I ask.”

He looked down at her. Then he gave a single short nod. “’kay,” he said, and went out of the office.

[H]

Jason entered the barn and shook off the snow, then took off his coat and hung it up. It was warm here; Dad had come down half an hour before and turned on the heater, as well as got the wood stove started; now he set up the chairs for the players. At Jason’s approach he straightened and smiled a little. “Hey,” he said. “Ready to play again tomorrow night? You did a great job on Christmas Eve.”

“Thanks.” Jason set his sax case on one of the chairs and began to plug in amps. “Yeah, I think I’m ready. Did you get the playlist finished today?”

“It’s ready to go,” Dad said. “I have copies for everyone. The only song off the list is ‘Happy Birthday’, but we all know it anyway and House will know it’s coming up, so that won’t be a problem.”

“Yeah.” Jason dusted his hands. “How old is House?”

“He’ll be fifty-five. We found a couple of big purple five candles for his cake. He’s gonna hate ‘em.” For a moment Dad looked all of eight years old. A wicked light of mischief gleamed in his eyes. “Roz will make sure we get a picture for the Facebook page.” He went to the cube fridge. “Want a tea?”

Jason accepted the bottle and twisted it open, indulged in a long swallow; it was unsweetened of course, he’d learned some time ago about the havoc sugar wreaked on his instrument. Dinner had been good and plenteous as always, something he never took for granted even though he knew it was a given now, and not a chance thing as it always had been in the past—but it had been an hour ago, and he was already hungry again. 

“We’ll make a snack when we get home later,” Dad said. Jason nodded and tried not to think of how long that would be. “In the meantime, here.” And he was given a roast beef sandwich.

“Thanks,” Jason remembered to say before he took a huge bite. It was thick with cheese and mustard and pickles, the way he liked it.

“I used to be your age and half-starved all the time,” Dad said with a smile. “There’s another one in the fridge with some apple slices if you need more, but don’t be surprised if House gets to it before you do.”

Jason thought of the full cookie jar on the kitchen counter at home. “’sokay,” he said around a mouthful of beef, and swallowed.

Rehearsal went well. Hawkeye was in attendance, as he’d walked over with House. He sat next to the wood stove, an appreciative audience. About halfway through proceedings Roz came in and joined him. Jason observed them as they sat side by side and conferred quietly now and then. Their mutual affection was clear, as was House’s watchfulness. Still, it wasn’t a hostile surveillance, more a deductive one. House wanted to know why they liked each other, Jason realized. He was a bit surprised to feel a muted sadness at the knowledge, but he knew far better than to let any of it show. It was something he tucked away inside, to think about later on when he was alone.

After rehearsal, everyone got together to discuss their secret plan for New Year’s. “You’ll have to keep Sarah out until the last minute,” Jay told Gene, as though they hadn’t talked about it already. “Everyone has their shirts?”

“I can’t wait!” Hawkeye said. He sounded even more excited than the band. “This is gonna be a blast! And just what everyone needs this time of year too.”

Plans agreed on, they all went their mutual ways. Dad invited the Houses and Hawkeye over for cookies and coffee, and was refused—a rare event, but as Hawkeye said, “It’s late and we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us again tomorrow. But we’ll take a rain check. I hear we’ve got another bad storm headed our way this weekend. That would be a perfect opportunity to sit and talk. And eat plenty of your wife’s good cooking, if she’s willing.”

After mutual goodbyes, Jason headed home with Dad. It was a cold night, chilly and raw with the smell of snow on the wind, all elements so familiar Jason noted them almost without conscious thought.

“Hawkeye’s right. Forecast for the weekend is a bad one. It’s entirely possible we’ll be digging out from two feet or more, and that almost guarantees we’ll be without power for a while,” Dad said quietly.

“Okay,” Jason said, and understood everything Dad hadn’t said. Mom hated the cold, though she never complained. “We’ll be okay.”

Dad put an arm around Jason’s shoulders. “Yeah, I know we will,” he said. “Thanks.”

“For what?” Jason asked, bewildered. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Now there you’re wrong.” Dad dropped a kiss on his head, then gave him a gentle hug. “Race you home.”

They made it together, just barely. They burst through the back door, and Dad managed to dump snow down Jason’s back as Mom came in. She shook her head at them.

“Get in here before you catch your death,” she scolded. “I made hot cocoa and heaven knows you’ll raid the cookie jar, just come into the living room and do it by the fire so you thaw out.” She took their coats and shooed them into the kitchen.

Eventually Jason lay in his warm nest of a bed, sleepy but with a thousand thoughts in his head. He fell asleep as he made a list of situations and people to study and ponder when he woke up. His last awareness was of his parents in the living room. They talked together in the easy, desultory way that comforted him more than almost anything else. He smiled and let tiredness steal him away.


	26. Chapter 26

_December 31st_

_New Year’s Eve_

It’s a cold and snowy night, but nothing out of the ordinary for this place, and this time of year. The big storm is still another day or so away—plenty of time to take care of things before then, and it isn’t as if they haven’t made ready for winter weather since early fall anyway. Besides, no one will let some snow get in the way of a New Year’s Eve bash. If people sat at home here every time it snowed, they’d never get out till May.

Greg finishes setup for his keyboard and glances at his phone just as it chirps. He snatches it up and checks the text: _S on her way G._ He smiles a little and sets the phone back on the console, then calls over to Roz.

“Gunney says heads up!”

His wife acknowledges this warning with a wide smile and a wave before she goes into the bathroom to put on her shirt. He’s loaned her one of his, and she modeled it that afternoon in their bedroom before he unbuttoned it and demonstrated his preference for her silky, pale gold skin. On that pleasant memory he gets down off the stage to take a last cruise around the place and make sure it’s all the way it should be. Under normal circumstances he’d leave it to the volunteer crew, but this is a special night and it has to be exactly right. He would never admit it of course; it’s a major sign of his softness in head and heart, a dangerous situation just about anywhere else but here, and even in this haven he should have his guard up more than he does . . . but not tonight.

The kid’s at the door. “Here she comes,” he says, and flashes Greg a brief, rare smile before he slips off to wait with the others. They’re all gathered as they whisper and crack jokes, but they fall silent as they hear Sarah come up from the parking lot.

“—have me running all over town today when I could have been here, you know there’s a million things to get done before the dance starts and I—“ She’s still in full bitch mode when she comes in and so she doesn’t see them right away, not until she starts to take off her coat. Then she stops in confusion, but only for a moment. Her eyes widen and her mouth actually drops open at the sight of a dozen people in Hawaiian shirts—and beyond them, a fire hall filled with fake cardboard palm trees, loads of party lights and lanterns, and electronic tiki torches scrounged from the basement of the hardware store where they’ve languished for several years. She looks from this pitiful excuse for a Keys vacation scene, and then she launches herself at them, and tries to envelop them all in one gigantic hug.

“Y’all are crazy people!” she says, but her sea-green eyes shine with delight. In that moment Greg knows it was worth all the work they put in. And there’s more to come too, as Sarah and the party-goers will find out.

In no time at all Sarah wears her own tropical shirt, a truly hideous lime-green monstrosity covered with a yellow parrot pattern—a gift courtesy the Houses and Pierce. Greg is amused to find his bio-dad wears not only a loud black-and-white flowered shirt over olive khakis, but a straw cowboy hat that’s also seen better days.

“Souvenirs,” Pierce says when he catches Greg’s stare, but that’s all the explanation he gives, and turns away. When Greg sees him again he’s at Roz’s side to help with the trays of cookies. He laughs at something she’s just said. There’s a sense that he’s deliberately set out to enjoy himself. Greg files it away for later consideration, and continues to work to get things set up onstage.

By a few minutes before eight, the place is just as packed as it was for Christmas. When people come in and see the tropical theme the buzz of excited talk and laughter rises. They take off their coats and find tables and get in line for ginger-lime fizzy punch served with chunks of pineapple and little paper umbrellas in fancy plastic cups, along with the first song of the night.

“Welcome to our New Year’s Eve of Tropical Splendor,” Gene says with a grin. On that intro they start off with the Beach Boys’ ‘Kokomo’, cranked up to get everyone on the dance floor. It fills up so fast it’s hard to believe there’s room to breathe. Clearly all these pale white people in sweaters are ready for as much escapism as they can get.

With that in mind, the band swings right into Jimmy Buffett’s ‘Son of a Sailor’, a personal favorite of Jay’s. Jason plays the ship’s bell, and Greg’s on the harmonica. He can almost smell the soft salt sea breeze. Of course that might be the lime in his beer—not his usual tipple but what the hell, it’s a special night.

They move on to a song suggested by Singh—Kenny Chesney’s ‘When I See This Bar’. “We heard it on the jukebox when we were in the Virgin Islands a couple of years ago,” he’d said when they made up the playlist. It’s a good choice—a little country, with that slow rock swing to it, perfect for the mood they want.

Since they’re in a country sort of mood, they keep it going with ‘It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere’, a song that has the whole crowd sing along. Greg wonders if someone’s spiked the punch already from the way people carry on, but it’s also clear they just want to have some fun before they’re stuck in reality with five feet of snow to move from driveways and sidewalks.

Of course they have to include a classic that will really get people motivated, so they kick into a vamp of Harry Nilsson’s ‘Lime in the Coconut’ while Gene explains the rules.

“You have to sing with us while you do the conga. The longer you can keep it going, the better everyone’s luck for the new year.”

It is a revelation to Greg to see his biological father at the head of the line with Anne Faust behind him (a stand-in for McMurphy, who’s at work tonight), to lead an enormous line of people around the dance floor as they bellow “SHE PUT THE LIME IN THE COCONUT!” at full volume, swing their hips and have the time of their lives. Sarah’s in there too, and so is Roz. Just this once Greg wishes he was there too.

They keep it up for a full ten minutes, and when it’s done the whole place breaks out in cheers and applause. Gene gives Greg a grin. “Well shit,” he says, and Greg can’t help but chuckle.

While the dancers find their seats or head to the buffet to get something to drink and eat, Gene gets out the Martin six-string and starts to play, just noodling. “This is a song I heard on the beach one evening when Sare and Jason and I were out for a walk. I asked the guy who wrote it to teach it to me. This is ‘The Hurricane Song’ by Micah Gardner.”

He strums the chords and begins to sing. Within thirty seconds the entire place is listening as Gene’s strong, easy voice sings the simple song, full of bittersweet humor. When he’s done he gets thunderous applause and cheers.

“Thank you,” he says, and stands up. “Intermission, but before we go on break there’s a little business to take of first . . .”

The cake is unbelievably huge, with two giant bright purple candles in the shape of the number five stuck in the middle. Greg glowers at them all as they sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him. When he blows out the candles he tries to make sure the wax splatters on Sarah’s shirt, but she doesn’t even notice.

Roz sits with him and they eat some cake together. “You better make this worth my while,” he growls under his breath.

“Yeah yeah,” Roz says, clearly unimpressed by his attitude. “You’ve got it so tough.” She leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “That’s for later,” she says softly, and laughs when he rolls his eyes at her.

“Nice work, birthday boy,” Sarah says, and gives him a wide smile. She loves every second of this, it’s quite clear. Greg enjoys her enjoyment, though of course he won’t ever tell her that.

“Pathetic,” he says instead, but she’s not fooled.

“Thanks,” she says, and leans in to kiss his cheek.

“Pretty sweet gig,” Pierce says when he comes by. He takes a seat next to Greg, plate in hand and an enormous slice of cake perched on it. “Fifty-five! You spring chicken.” He excavates a huge bite of chocolate cake and munches happily.

“You oughta know since you were there,” Greg says. To his surprise Pierce laughs in genuine amusement.

“Yeah,” he says when he can speak. “Truer words.” His blue eyes twinkle. “Kinda glad I was, all things considered.” He looks around at the fire hall. “Nice work. Your foster mom is dancing about six inches off the floor.”

“I saw you doing your fair share of dancing,” Greg says in accusation, but his heart really isn’t in it.

“Hell yeah,” Pierce says. “Dance while you can, you know?” He gets to his feet. “Can’t wait to see what you come up with for the second half!” He wanders off, cowboy hat tipped back and shirt in full billow. Roz watches him go, affection in her expression.

“You like that old fart,” Greg says. Roz glances at him.

“Of course I do,” she says, and smiles her secret smile for him. “He helped make you.”

That remark buoys him up all the way back onstage, through the tune-up and the settle-in. Then they begin the second half of the night with another Kenny Chesney song, ‘Key Lime Pie’. This one brings out the couples who appreciate the real meaning of the lyrics, if their expressions are anything to go by.

The next tune is an old John Hiatt song, ‘Thank God the Tiki Bar Is Open.’ Jay does the vocals and a fantastic solo that earns him wild cheers. That leads naturally into a great tune Jason found a couple of days ago—‘Callin’ In Gone,’ by the Boat Drunks. That one proves so popular they have to play it again, which means it’ll end up on their permanent playlist. And that one leads to one of Gene’s favorites—Greg’s heard him sing it around the barn and the house: Blake Shelton’s ‘Some Beach’. The whole band loves this song, so they give it all they’ve got and make it an extended play, which gets a load of people on the dance floor.

That takes them into another internet gem, discovered in their search to plump out their playlist: ‘Beach in My Backyard,’ an original by Brent Burns.

Of course the next-to-last song has to be ‘Margaritaville’, which turns into the sing-along Greg knew would happen. As they work through the lyrics, Greg wonders if anyone else has the same deep knowledge of the pain behind the happy melody. He remembers nights spent soaked in alcohol and Vicodin, controlled substances that did nothing to ease his misery and never sounded anywhere near this cheerful. It’s still too much to think about, so he backs away from the emotional impact of the words and concentrates on playing instead.

At the end the hats and noisemakers are handed out, and they do the countdown to midnight. As the old year dies and the new year is born, they sing Robbie Burns’ words—another song that makes Greg wonder if anyone comprehends the meaning of the lyrics. Old friendships and loss, old times gone forever and commemorated by those who are still alive . . . as he plays the chords he feels Roz’s arm slip around his waist.

“Happy New Year,” she says, and puts her cheek against his. “It’ll be the best one yet.”

_‘Kokomo’, the Beach Boys_

_‘Son of a Sailor’, Jimmy Buffett_

_‘When I See This Bar’, Kenny Chesney_

_‘It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere’, Alan Jackson and Jimmy Buffett_

_‘Lime in the Coconut’, Harry Nilsson_

_‘The Hurricane Song’, Micah Gardner_

_‘Key Lime Pie’, Kenny Chesney_

_‘Thank God the Tiki Bar Is Open,’ John Hiatt_

_‘Callin’ In Gone,’ the Boat Drunks_

_‘Some Beach,’ Blake Shelton_

_‘Beach in My Back Yard’, Brent Burns_

_‘Margaritaville’, Jimmy Buffett_

_‘Auld Lang Syne,’ Robbie Burns/traditional tune_


	27. Chapter 27

_January 4th_

“We need to talk to the kid. Get him to the office, stat.”

Greg looks up from his tabloid— _I Married My Mom and A Goat! We’ve Never Been Happier!_ is the article he currently peruses—and squints at his bio-dad. “What for?”

“Business.” Pierce glances down at the tabloid. Greg expects an eye roll and a sarcastic remark. Instead he gets interest. “Any cute babes in there?”

“44D peroxide blonde on the gate fold,” Greg says, and tosses the paper aside when Hawkeye reaches for it. “Later. Apparently business awaits.”

They find Jason in the mudroom, as he takes off his jacket. He glances at them as they come in, a wary look that tells its own story; while he's learned to trust the adults in his life to a large extent, old habits die hard. When two men come into a room, it's a good idea to keep an eye on them.

"Hey listen, we need to talk," Pierce says before Greg can say anything. "Get something hot to drink and meet us in the office, okay? Don't worry, it's not trouble." He flashes that engaging smile of his, but it's not a calculated effort; he likes the kid. Jason's brows rise, but he says nothing, just looks from Pierce to Greg, and nods.

He meets them in the office five minutes later, a mug of mocha in hand. Sarah lets him have coffee diluted with cocoa. In Greg's opinion it's a ruination of her excellent brew, but the kid seems to like it and hey, it's caffeine after all. Without a word Jason takes a seat and holds his mug with both hands. His knuckles are red, an indicator of how cold it is outside. With the power still out from the storm, the kid's been on the hop with firewood chores. At least they have the means to stay warm here with the wood stoves and fireplaces, but there's a price to be paid for that bonus, and it's that someone has to go out to get the logs and kindling. He's done so without complaint--Greg knows the boy considers it his primary chore in the winter, and takes pride in doing a good job--but no whining, that's just weird.

Pierce settles his lanky length into Gene's chair, next to the wood stove. They don't usually keep this room warm in a power outage, but neither Greg nor the old man want to sit in a cold room either. "I suppose you're wondering why we asked you in here," he says to Jason, who gives a cautious nod. "Well, it goes something like this. It's fairly obvious to everyone in this room that you're headed to medical school." Jason takes a mouthful of hot mocha before he nods again. Pierce folds his hands across his middle. "It's also come to my attention that you may need instruction in one of the most important subjects you'll ever deal with in school, and that would be the fine art of pranking."

Whatever the kid expected, this isn't it. He blinks, lowers his mug. Still he says nothing, just waits for more information. Greg can't help but feel a little pride at that reaction, though he's had nothing to do with it, it's the boy's natural inclination.

"Med school is tough," Pierce says. "You'll need a release, a way to let off steam. Practical jokes are a time-honored tradition among med students. You'll be pranked and expected to prank in turn." He looks at Jason, a steady gaze that holds a bit of cool objectivity along with the affection. "Have you ever pranked anyone?"

Jason doesn't answer right away. "No," he says at last, his voice quiet.

"Okay, that's fine. We can teach you what we know--you know, pass on our knowledge to the next generation," Pierce says. The kid glances at Greg.

"What he said," Greg says. "Gotta learn sometime. It's essential for survival. If you don't prank you'll be seen as weak. You don't want that, trust me."

"Okay," Jason says after another short silence. "What do I do?"

"Don't worry, we'll show you the ropes," Pierce says, just as someone knocks at the door, then comes in. It's Chase. He closes the door behind him, then perches on the corner of Gene’s desk and folds his arms.

“I want in,” he says, and there’s a do-or-die expression on his face that almost makes Greg laugh out loud. Pierce looks him up and down.

“They prank in Australia? I guess so, you’re here,” he says with perfect innocence. Greg snorts. Chase rolls his eyes.

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” he says, heavy on the irony. “I did work for the Great Deducer here for several years prior to this gig.”

Pierce glances at Greg, who inclines his head slightly. “Yeah, all right,” the older man says with something less than enthusiasm. Chase does not rise to the bait.

“You’ll learn fairly quickly if I’m lying,” he says with perfect calm. “So what’s on the agenda?” He looks down at Jason and smiles just a little. “Who do we prank first?”

“I won’t hurt anyone,” the kid says. Pierce nods.

“Duly noted,” he says. “Any prank that relies on pain is out. You’re a man after my own heart.”

“Yeah, when he has his own practice he’ll keep it in a jar on his desk,” Greg snaps, both annoyed at and impressed by the kid’s integrity. Undoubtedly it comes from his background of abuse, which means he’s probably deliberately chosen to not be like his biological father. Interesting, the intertwined histories of father and son packed into this little room . . . “The kid decides who we prank.”

Jason’s eyes widen. For a moment he looks almost scared, and then it’s gone. “Dad,” he says, completing the father-son link. “He—he can handle it.”

“Okay,” Pierce says. There’s understanding in his tone, and a hint of amusement. “Gene it is. So, ideas? What would work best?”

After much debate, they decide the advice for good drama works for novice pranksters too: start small and build. Very small. “Clothes turned inside out,” Pierce says. “Salt in the coffee would be easier.”

“I don’t want to mess up his blood pressure,” Jason says.

“You think being annoyed won’t do that?” Greg has to point out.

“That’s just temporary. Salt could cause more damage.”

Greg gives a dramatic sigh. “You’re taking all the fun out of this.”

“No hurting anyone,” Jason reminds him. His dark eyes flash. “Otherwise forget it.”

Greg leans forward. “You will not survive med school without a sense of humor,” he says in his best ominous tone.

“I’d rather be picked on than hurt my dad,” Jason shoots back, unintimidated. “Hurting someone is not funny, anyway.”

Well, that’s told him. Greg sits back. “You keep thinking that for as long as you can,” he says.

“Now boys,” Pierce says in a mild tone. “We won’t hurt anyone, Jason. You have our promise.” He sits up. “So—first things first. We have to keep Gene out of the bedroom while someone goes in to do the deed.”

“I can do it,” Jason says. “I’ll be taking logs upstairs anyway. If you guys can keep him distracted . . .”

Fifteen minutes later they’re in the living room when Gene comes in with a cup of coffee. He plunks down on the couch and relaxes with a sigh.

“I’d better check the fireplaces upstairs,” Jason says, and gets up. Gene sets his mug aside.

“You’ve been busting your butt all day,” he says with real concern. “How about some help?”

“Uh—“ The kid flashes Pierce a look. “Dad, I’m fine. You just relax down here.”

“No, it’s okay,” Gene says. He starts to rise. “The two of us can get it done in no time.”

“No!” Jason says sharply. “I can do it! Stay down here!” And he takes off. Gene watches him flee up the stairs. A smile tugs at his lips. Once the kid is in the bedroom he says

“How long do we give him?”

“Five minutes,” Pierce says, and grins.

Twenty minutes later they’re all congregated in the living room once more, and Pierce says “First rule of pranking: never trust anyone, not even your fellow pranksters.”

Jason glowers at him. “This is bullshit,” he mutters. His underlip is poked out, his brows lowered over flashing dark eyes; he looks about three years old. It is one of the most human reactions Greg’s ever seen from him, and it gives him hope in an odd sort of way. The kid is still closed down emotionally to a large extent, though his adoptive parents have done a lot to help him open up. For him to show anger this way is a good sign.

“It’s how it is,” Gene says. He puts a gentle hand on Jason’s back, rubs it slowly. “You gotta learn, son.”

Jason sniffs and turns his head away, but he doesn’t reject his dad’s touch. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s how the game is played,” Greg says. “One of the best ways to test someone’s intelligence is to offend them. Morons get mad and pout or preach at you and walk away. Smart people pay attention and learn the rules.”

Jason considers this. Gradually he thaws a little. “Never trust anyone,” he says slowly.

“Exactly.” Gene gives him a little hug. “You did all right for a first prank. I’m just glad I stopped you before you got to my socks.”

“Keep this up and we’ll all be puking rainbows,” Greg says. “So who’s our next target? For real,” he adds as the kid sends him a look.

“McMurphy,” Chase says before anyone else can speak. Pierce’s face brightens.

“Good choice,” he says. “She’s got the chops to take a joke.”

“You just want to give her that comforting hug afterwards,” Greg accuses. Pierce shrugs.

“I’m that kind of guy,” he says, with perfect innocence. Everyone in the room chuckles except Jason.

“So what do we do?” he wants to know. The suggestions fly thick and fast.

“Staple the files shut,” Gene says.

“Itching powder in her scrubs,” Greg counters.

“”Do they even make that stuff any more—itching powder?” Chase wants to know.

“We can make our own,” Pierce tells him. “You just cut up some hair.” He twiddles his thumbs. “Fill one of the exam rooms with balloons.”

“Y’all are amateurs.” At the new voice in the conversation everyone looks over to see Sarah headed toward them.

“Hey, you said no girls!” Greg whines at Gene, who shrugs and makes room for his wife.

“If I don’t let her in she’ll beat me up,” he says, and gives a dramatic flinch when Sarah gives his chest a light smack. “See?”

“Oh, shut up,” she says, and snuggles in against him. “Now, if you want to prank McMurphy good, I suggest you give this a try . . .”

When she’s done explaining everyone mulls it over. “Yeah,” Pierce says. “Yeah, that’ll work.”

“Okay,” Jason says. He sounds a little doubtful, but willing. “When?”

“Wednesday,” Chase says. “Power should be back on by Monday at the latest.”

“So we’re good?” Greg says. Nods all around. “Wednesday it is then.”


	28. Chapter 28

_January 8th_

Today’s the day—the kid’s big debut into the club of pranksterdom. Greg actually finds himself up early and even eager to head into work for once.

“You’re bright-eyed and bushy-tailed this morning,” Roz says when he comes into the kitchen. She eyes him over the rim of her coffee mug. “What’s going on?”

He pours a mug of joe for himself, stirs in plenty of sugar and cream, and comes over to kiss her. “Does there have to be a reason?” he wants to know.

“When it’s you, yes,” she says, unimpressed by his good mood. “What are you up to? No good, undoubtedly.”

“Hey,” he says, and feels a little unreasonable sting of hurt under the amusement. Roz gives an impatient sigh, and then he puts it together; he’d heard her get up in the night, spend a few minutes in the bathroom, and return. A short while later he’d woken to feel the warmth of the heating pad near his backside. She usually spoons him at night, with her thighs against his butt. “PMS,” he says, and she actually gives a little growl, her brows lowered. The hurt fades away, replaced by concern paired with the urge to mock. He gives in to the first and avoids the second—to make fun of her now would indicate he has a death wish, and he wants to be around at least long enough to see what Jason’s prank will be.

So he sets his mug aside and gingerly takes her in his arms, brings her close. She resists, but only for a moment. When she settles her head on his shoulder and relaxes he smiles just a little. “You’re not working a full day today, are you?” he asks, though he knows she tutors this afternoon.

“I’ll be home by noon,” she says, and nuzzles him. “What do you want for supper?”

“I’ll pick something up at Lou’s,” he says in a burst of uncharacteristic generosity. Well, it’s only this once. And maybe he can get free pizza if the old man’s around--a sob story about his granddaughter all cranky and unreasonable should do the trick. He’ll play it by ear later.

“I want a veggie pizza,” Roz says. She sounds like she’s about five years old. “With extra sauce and cheese. And some _antipasto_.”

Yeesh. His stomach turns at the thought of all that fresh food, it’s indecent. “Yeah, okay. You and your healthy stuff,” he grumbles, but he kisses her hair, breathes in the smell of it, of her. With caution he slides his hand down to her belly. “We could have sex,” he says in her ear. “It helps with the cramps.”

“Nice try and I love you, but right now sex is the last thing on my mind,” she whispers back. She takes his hand, kisses his palm. “I’m getting a shower.” She shuffles off to the bathroom with mug in hand, to pass by Pierce who is on his way in. He puts a hand on her shoulder and she nods at him, offers a wan smile before she goes on her way.

“PMS,” Greg offers before Pierce can say anything. “She’ll be fine when she’s done exsanguinating.”

“Ah ha.” Pierce gives him a quizzical look. “You’re up early. Excited about the big doin’s, I take it.”

“Insomnia,” Greg says. “Besides, around here we don’t get excited about everyday events like pranks, especially considering we’re pranking masters and this is so mundane it’s boring as hell.”

“Oh, I see.” Pierce ambles over to the coffeemaker. “Well, way down east we still know how to enjoy our fun.”

Greg is about to snap off a reply when he sees his father give him a sidelong glance. His blue eyes glint with sly amusement; the older man attempts to get a rise out of him, but in the gentlest of ways. To Greg’s amazement he feels something, an emotion that’s unfamiliar but easy to name all the same: affection. He can hardly credit it, but there it is. So he does the only thing he can under the circumstances: he flees. “Huh,” he says, and takes his coffee to the bedroom where he can ogle his wife while she gets dressed.

He and Pierce ride in to work together. It’s weird to make the now-familiar drive while it’s still dark; the roads are icy and Barbarella fishtails a couple of times on the usual bad spots. Greg thinks of Roz on the back roads in her beater of a truck and scribbles a mental note to have the vehicle taken in for a tuneup. He’ll have Jay make sure the snow tires really are okay for another year’s use. He hadn’t thought much about it, just had the old ones put on and Jay had said they were all right, but with such a bad winter underway . . . “She needs a new one,” he says under his breath, and doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until Pierce says

“A new what?”

Greg hunches a bit over the steering wheel. “Truck,” he mutters, embarrassed to be caught talking to himself.

“Hmm . . . yeah, good idea. Let me know when you start looking, I’d be happy to help out if you’ll allow me to.” Pierce says it with no hesitation. It is a genuine offer, that much is clear immediately. So of course Greg has to take issue with it.

“Because you’ve got a mattress full of money stashed away.”

“Among other places,” Pierce says. Clearly he’s amused by the remark. “I made a good income for quite a few years, and your grandfather taught me to save. I can contribute, if you’re okay with it.”

“I’m more than okay with it,” Greg says with some sarcasm, just to see the reaction he’ll get. “I’m thrilled.”

“You’re not thrilled,” Pierce says calmly. “You think it’s some kind of game on my part, maybe the kind John House used to play.” He sighs, a quiet sound that still reaches Greg’s ears above the crunch of snow under tires. “I may joke around, but not about things like my daughter-in-law’s safety. Or yours either. Maybe someday you’ll see that.”

They pull into the clinic parking lot. Greg starts to put Barbarella into her spot next to the door, only to find he can’t do it—the space hasn’t been plowed. Instead there is a magnificent snow castle that fills up every single bit of the slot. Undoubtedly it’s precise right down to the millimeter. So, Chase was in on this too—not only did he get to help out, he got his revenge as well. Very nicely done. Greg doesn’t even want to think about how much work will be involved in the dismantlement of this edifice.

“Well well,” Pierce says. His lean face creases in a grin. “This should prove interesting, to say the least.”

“Clearly someone got drunk and thought this was his front yard,” Greg says loudly.

“Yeah, you keep thinking that. I will warn you though, I have my suspicions you’re about to be both disillusioned and entertained at your own expense.” Pierce actually laughs. “Come on, let’s see what else the kid set up.”

The clinic is dark—another surprise, though at the moment they don’t have a case. Power was restored to the area on Tuesday, so that’s not the cause, and the last patient was sent home several days ago with a diagnosis of mycosis fungoides; non-cancerous at the moment, though undoubtedly that wouldn’t last. Still, forewarned etc. They’ve gone through files and come up with duds. But usually McMurphy’s here by now . . . _She’s in on it too_ , he realizes. “What’s next, gum in the lock?” he grumbles under his breath.

The security code works though, as does the deadbolt. He opens the door with care, checks for boobytraps, comes in with Pierce behind him, turns on the lights and looks around. Everything seems okay . . . He advances into the room, but nothing happens.

“That’s it?” Pierce sound disappointed. “That’s all? Well, he is a beginner . . .”

Greg makes no assumptions. He turns on the main lights, goes to his office, pokes his head in and makes a quick scan. Nothing out of place, nothing out of the ordinary . . . He dumps his coat on a chair and heads to the kitchen with Pierce behind him, flips on the light and moves aside. “You first,” he says. “Coffee, and check the grounds for salt.”

“Thanks,” Pierce says wryly, but slips past him to go to the cabinet, only to come to a halt. After a moment he starts to chuckle.

“What?” Greg asks. The older man shakes his head. Still chuckling, he goes out of the kitchen as he removes his coat. Greg watches him, mystified. Then he goes to the cabinet and discovers the same thing Pierce did: the handle has been zip-tied snugly to the adjacent handle on the other cabinet door with clear plastic zip-ties. A quick glance reveals the refrigerator and all the cabinets and drawer handles have received the same treatment, as well as the silverware drawer where the knives reside. Well, no problem; he’ll get a pair of scissors from the exam room . . .

And when he does, he finds all the scissors with their handles neatly tied up, and no scalpels in sight. Not only that, but all the cabinets there have received the same treatment as the ones in the kitchen. The bathroom cabinets are also inaccessible, as is the toilet handle.

“Wow! I’m impressed. He got you good,” Pierce says with a grin.

Greg remembers Jason saying slowly ‘never trust anyone’. The kid repeated the cardinal rule right back to him, and he never even caught on. A smile fights its way to his lips. _Son of a bitch_ , he thinks in genuine amusement. _I’m getting slow and stupid in my old age. Good for you, Jason_. Aloud he says “Guess you’d better go home and get some scissors.”

“Who’s this ‘we’ you speak of?” Pierce says with a laugh. “I’m gonna put my feet up and enjoy this prank. After I take some pictures to post to my Facebook page, of course.”

“Of course,” Greg says with considerable sarcasm. “So much for wanting to help.”

“Hey, this is different.”

“You encouraged him too,” Greg reminds his dad. “You hold some responsibility for this mess.”

Pierce just takes out his phone. “Get going, we need some cutting implements!”

Greg mutters under his breath all the way home. Once there he stomps up the path, goes inside—and pauses in the doorway. Every cabinet and drawer is zip-tied shut. The dish rack is empty, and the medicine cabinet in the bathroom is tied; scissors, toenail clippers, even letter openers, all locked away. Roz is gone—she left at about the same time he and Pierce did, so she probably didn’t have anything to do with this . . . Sarah’s in on it too, he gets it now.

When he knocks on the back door, she’s there waiting for him. Arms folded, she leans against the doorjamb. “Good morning,” she says, and offers a bright smile. “You’re up early today. What can I do for you?”

“Scheming minx,” he growls, and tries hard not to laugh. “Need to borrow a pair of scissors.”

Her sea-green eyes widen. “Oh, did you lose yours?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” He holds out his hand. “Gimme.”

“You know, all of our knives and scissors are in for sharpening,” she says with an innocent look. “Sorry.”

Greg huffs out a breath. “I see. How about a cup of coffee at least?”

She steps aside. “Sure, son. Come in and get warmed up.”

The first thing he sees in the kitchen is Jason. The kid’s got his winter things on; he’s about to head off to school. He glances at Greg, a wary look. With a shock Greg recognizes it for what it is: _are you gonna come after me?_ He knows that feeling all too well, he’s as familiar with it as he is with the sight of his face in the mirror. For a moment he doesn’t know what to say, what to do, to reassure the boy.

“Nice one,” he says finally, and he means it. It’s a great prank, one of the best he’s seen in some time. “Who else is in on it? Besides your mom, Chase and McMurphy.” It’s a test to see if the kid will rat out conspirators.

Jason spreads mustard on his sandwich with his finger. He licks off the excess and gives Greg a look. “The feed store’s open,” is all he says, stuffs his sandwich in a plastic bag, sticks it in his backpack, zips the backpack shut and slings it over his shoulder. As he turns to leave he gives Greg a quick look, and there it is, that rare, sweet smile that transforms his features. “Have a good day,” he says politely, and he’s gone. Greg watches him leave and gives in to the urge to laugh. He’s still laughing when Sarah gives him a cup of coffee and pats his arm.

“Want some breakfast?”

Greg sighs. “Yeah, but apparently I have to get to the feed store. Unless your kid got there last night and bought all the knives.”

Sarah laughs. “I think you’re safe. Have a seat. Oatmeal and toast coming up.” She gently bumps her coffee mug to his. “He’ll do just fine in med school, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Greg says, and is surprised by another emotion he never expected to feel today: pride. “Yeah, he will.”


	29. Chapter 29

_January 13th_

It’s the end of a long day. Greg puts his feet up on his desk, crosses his ankles, cranks up Red Nichols and savors the shot of Bookers he’s added to McMurphy’s excellent coffee. Okay, not such a long day, at least for him; still, it’s over. The team’s on a case; Chase will make the run to Syracuse tomorrow to pick up the patient, while Singh covers his clinic hours at Wirth’s House o’ Healin’. Nothing to do now but wait for Roz to pick him up and take him home. Barbarella’s in the shop for her first tuneup and lookover of the new year. Jay will bring her to the rehearsal tonight.

Greg looks out the window at the snowfall and sips his coffee. Over the music he can hear McMurphy talk to someone. From the one-sided nature of the conversation she’s on the phone, probably with a supplier. She’s polite, but her good manners have sharp edges. He listens to her idly as his mind drifts. Part of it works on the new case, takes the puzzle pieces and sorts through them to see if anything fits, any colors match, while another part revels in the music, the earthy, sweet-sad joy of it as it fills his head. He is supremely comfortable, as he waits for his wife to show up and take him home, feed him dinner, and make love to him later, when he’s happily tired out from rehearsal.

“So, life is good. How nice for you.” Amber sits perched on his desk, her full lips curved in that slight cat-got-the-cream smile he still knows all too well, though it’s been some time. Greg stares at her, jolted out of his good mood into absolute shock. She waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re just fine, this isn’t you harking back.” Her smile widens into a sly smirk. “But you didn’t really think you could snap your fingers and I’d disappear for good? I’m part of you, whether you like it or not.”

The little part of his mind that hasn’t jumped into panic mode notes the track he listens to is ‘Feelin’ No Pain’. He appreciates the joke even while he says aloud—what the hell, might as well talk to her—“Why show up now?”

Amber swings a shapely leg. “Why not? It’s as good a time as any, don’t you think?” Her pale eyes gleam with humor. “Better call your shrink.”

He’s already reached for the receiver when he stops and tilts his head. “Why?”

“It’s an emerrrrrrgency,” she whispers, and gives a breathy little laugh. Greg stares at her, swallows on a dry throat. Then he sits back.

“No,” he says, just as Roz comes into the office.

“No what?” She walks right through Amber to stand by him, bend down and offer a kiss.

“Rude,” Amber says mildly.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Greg says. Roz straightens and looks around the empty office. “Wilson’s dead girlfriend is sitting on my desk, attempting to intimidate me.”

After a moment Roz sits in the visitor’s chair across from him. She doesn’t say anything, she just waits for him to speak. Greg finds he’s both reassured and annoyed by her attitude.

“Aww, it’s twoo wuve,” Amber mocks.

“You’ve been waiting for this to happen.” The words just fall right out of his mouth. Roz looks surprised, a little confused.

“Waiting for what?” she says quietly. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

“You know I came here straight from the nuthouse,” he says harshly. “You know I’m crazy.”

This statement doesn’t get the reaction he expects. Roz relaxes a little, and she smiles at him. “Well _yeah_ ,” she says. “That’s never been news.” The smile fades. “Are you all right?”

He understands it in the way she undoubtedly means it—is he worried about his own mental state? “I don’t know,” he admits. Roz is still for just a moment. Then she nods.

“We should stop at Sarah and Gene’s place then,” she says, and gets to her feet. “If that’s something you want to do.”

“Wow, you’ve got her well-trained,” Amber says admiringly.

“What if I don’t?” Greg throws at Roz.

“Then I’ll do my best to help you, but I don’t know what to do,” Roz says simply. Now she looks upset, worried. Her work-worn hands knot together in her lap. “What can I do?”

He watches her for a moment or two. Then he says “Goldmans it is.”

“Perfect,” Amber says. “I like your shrink. She’s a good challenge. See you there!” And she’s gone.

The ride to the Goldmans is conducted in silence, though at one point, when they’re stopped at the four-way, Roz reaches out to put her hand over his for a moment. Her slender fingers give him the gentlest of caresses. It’s a promise, a reminder, a reassurance. He gives in to impulse and returns it, but keeps his gaze pinned to the scenery outside the window, even though it’s dark enough now that he can’t really see much of anything.

They park the truck at their place and walk over to the Goldmans place. It looks warm and inviting as always, as golden light spills from the windows. Jason is in the back yard, at work on the woodpile. He gives them a nod as they pass by; Greg feels his gaze follow them through the back door into the mud room.

Sarah is in the office. She types up what looks like case notes—appropriate under the circumstances. She gives them an inquiring look and a smile that fades quickly. “What is it?” she asks. Greg notes it’s not “What’s wrong?” That gives him some hope.

“All hope is false,” Amber says from Gene’s desk. She sits atop the blotter, the essence of pert, provocative attitude. She gives Sarah a glance. “Better hope she’s got Mayfield on speed dial.”

“I’m seeing dead people again,” Greg says. He stands there and fidgets, ready to bolt. Sarah’s brows rise, but all she says is

“Close the door please, then sit down and tell me about it.”

Greg does as she asks and takes the visitor’s chair. Roz moves to the door but Greg says “No, stay.” He darts a glance at Sarah. “Got a problem with that?”

“Of course not,” Sarah says. “The fact that you want your wife here while we talk about what’s happening is a good sign, no matter what the ghost is telling you.”

Greg had been slouched in the chair; now he sits up as Roz passes him to take Gene’s chair. “Ghost?” he says, both outraged and amused by the use of the term. “You think she’s real?”

“I think memories can be ghosts,” Sarah says calmly.

“Oh, nice save,” Amber says in mock admiration. “Tarot deck’s next.”

“”What I’m interested in is why she’s showed up now after so long,” Sarah continues. “It’s been some time.”

“She’s supposed to be gone for good,” Greg snaps. “I don’t want her in my head!”

Sarah leans back and regards him with that steady gaze he recognizes as her entry into professional mode. He hasn’t seen it for a while, but for some reason it gives him reassurance. “She’ll always be there, son. She’s part of you.”

“Told you so,” Amber says in the most infuriating manner.

“Instead of seeing her as an adversary, why not find out why she’s here?” Sarah sounds intrigued, not worried. Greg feels his anxiety lessen a bit. “What do you think is going on?”

“She’s . . . when she showed up before,” he says slowly, “things were falling apart, but I didn’t realize . . . I didn’t . . . didn’t know . . .” He remembers the numbness, the terrible fear that he couldn’t control what happened, couldn’t even distinguish what was real or imagined, and he was helpless to stop it, any of it.

“Well, in my opinion that’s clearly not going on here now,” Sarah says quietly. “Is it? Think about your answer, don’t just say what you think I want to hear. You know that in this room you can tell the truth and you won’t get slapped down for it or punished.”

Greg glances at Roz. She offers a slight smile, though it’s clear she’s worried. “I can still leave if you want me to,” she says.

“Aww, sweet little wifey,” Amber says, and rolls her eyes. “Where the hell did you pick _her_ up, the bargain bin? No wonder she loves you. You’re a total gold mine for someone like her.”

“Stay,” he says, as he struggles not to yell at the image of Amber. He hates what she says because he knows they are emotions from the deepest part of him, the part that says and does cruel things without regard for consequences. “Please.”

Roz nods. “Of course. Thank you, _amante_.” Her smile grows a little, and he winces inside at her trust.

Sarah regards them both with her warm, calm gaze. “All right, now—back to the question. Why do you think this ghost has returned?”

“I don’t know,” Greg says, but he’s afraid to say what he really thinks.

“Is it—is it okay if I—if I say something?” Roz asks. Greg just nods. “Maybe if this person showed up when you were . . . losing it, she’s showing up now because you think you’ve lost something important again.”

“Hey,” Amber says, and gives Roz a look of mocking admiration. “She’s not as dumb as she seems. Impressive.”

“Oh, _balls_ ,” he says, because he sees where she’s headed. “No way.”

“Your dad just left.” And she says nothing more.

“Totally specious premise,” he informs everyone in the room, corporeal or non-.

“Interesting,” Amber says, and taps a scarlet-tipped finger against her lips.

“Interesting,” Sarah says, an unconscious echo of the hallucination.

“Doesn’t it bother you _at all_ that I’m seeing someone who isn’t there?” Greg demands.

“What do you think Roz and I should do? Have you hauled in for seventy-two hour observation and get your urine tested? Freak out, panic, run in circles, scream and shout?” Sarah wants to know. “None of that is helpful in this instance.”

“Neither is seeing a fake person,” Greg snaps.

“So you know she’s not real, that she’s a projection of your subconscious.” Sarah folds her arms and stares at him. “If you can reason to that extent I’m not worried, son. The more pressing issue at the moment is why she’s here. Have you asked her?”

Greg feels like he really has lost his mind. “Asked—as in speak to her like she’s an actual someone?”

“I _am_ in the room, you know,” Amber says. She gives him a sulky glare.

“Yes. Good psycho-analysis is like great drama,” Sarah says.

“If you’re an actor, get paid up front,” Greg offers.

“Good idea, but I was thinking more along the lines of ‘start small and build’. The simplest approach at this point would be to just ask her the question.”

“Yeah,” Amber says. Now she sounds reproachful. “Just ask me.”

“Oh, shut up,” Greg mutters, and catches Sarah’s eye. “Her, not you. I mean Amber,” he says, and doesn’t look at Roz.

“Ask.” Sarah says it mildly. It’s not an order, but he knows he’s got no choice.

“Fine. Why are you here?” he says to the spectre as he glares at her. She smirks at him.

“Pretty please with sugar on top.”

Greg bares his teeth at her. “Pleeeeeeeeeeease.” He makes it a threat.

Amber sighs. “You’re so antisocial. I really shouldn’t tell you. You need another year’s worth of weekly sessions with your shrink, you know. I find her very entertaining.” Greg says nothing, just waits. “Oh, all right. You’re thinking Y when you should be thinking X.” And with that she disappears, but Greg knows she’s not gone for good.

_‘Feelin’ No Pain’, Red Nichols and his Five Pennies_


	30. Chapter 30

_January 13th_

It is with some trepidation that Greg enters the barn for tonight’s rehearsal. There’s been no sign of the hallucination, but he has the feeling she lurks, ready for the right moment to come out and make things worse. For the first time in years, despite his shrink’s calm and objective words, he’s terrified that his mental health is in jeopardy once more.

As he walks in he finds Gunney and the kid already in residence; they’ve just finished setup and talk back and forth as they get their instruments out. As he walks up to the stage he hears Jason say “She’s gonna want to go out on Valentine’s Day, isn’t she?”

“Most girls do,” Goldman says. He sits down and starts to tune the Gretsch. He nods in acknowledgment at Greg. Greg manages to give him a nod back and goes to the keyboard stand.

“It’s stupid,” the kid says. “If you love someone you should tell them all the time, not just on one day.”

“Agreed.” Goldman sits back and cradles the Gretsch in his capable hands. “But girls like that mushy stuff. Get used to it, son.” His lean features crease in a smile. “It does have its side benefits.”

Despite his own worries Greg can’t help but roll his eyes at that comment. He doesn’t say anything however, just continues to unpack and plug in the keyboard, and adjusts the settings as Singh and then Jay come in dusted with snow. Soon enough they’re ready to play. And the kid still grouses. “I’m supposed to work that night,” he grumbles. “It’s a Friday, no way will Dave let me take that one off. Mandy’s gonna be mad at me.”

Goldman shoots Greg a sidelong glance. He strums a chord progression, then swings into the tune. After a moment Singh chuckles and kicks in the beat, and Jay adds the bass line. The words pop into Greg’s head automatically, as they always do.

_there are some things you can’t cover up with lipstick and powder_

_but I heard you mention my name, can’t you talk any louder_

_don’t come any closer, don’t come any nearer_

_my vision of you can’t come any clearer_

“Listen,” Amber whispers in his ear, and he swallows on a throat suddenly gone dry. The incipient enjoyment of the music evaporates in the heat of his fear. Something tightens in his gut. It’s a feeling he knows all too well—when clues come together in an answer. But he hasn’t been looking for one—so what--?

The kid blushes and glowers at the band as they move through the song.

_got a loaded imagination bein’ fired by girls talk_

_it’s a more or less situation inspired by girls talk_

“You’re getting damn slow in your old age,” Amber hisses. “Didn’t I tell you to _listen_?”

_there are some things you can’t cover up with lipstick and powder . . ._

Without further warning it opens in his mind, a commonplace image that holds a terrible secret. He stands there for a moment, transfixed in utter horror. Then he abandons the keyboard, flees the stage, grabs his coat and runs out into the snow and cold, down the lane all the way to the back door of the Goldmans place. Some part of him notes that this is a dramatic gesture; he could have used his phone to deal with things. But another part of him wants to be in his shrink’s office with her close by. And his wife; her especially. As he enters the quiet kitchen he calls Roz. “Come over,” he says, fear and short breath from his run making him terse.

“Where are you?” Roz says.

“The neighbor’s. Get here now.” He ends the call as he comes into the living room and finds Sarah curled up on the couch with a stack of seed catalogs next to her. She looks up as he comes in. “Office,” he says, and stalks past her.

To their credit, both Sarah and Roz are there ten minutes later when he opens the Skype call to his mother. He knows she’ll be online because she’s usually around in the evenings, unless she’s over at his aunt’s or immersed in that insipid book club she joined last year.

“Greg!” Blythe beams at him from the computer monitor. “It’s so nice—“

“Take off your makeup,” he snaps. His mother pauses in mid-sentence.

“Wh-what?”

“Go wash it off! Come on, come on, it’s not fucking rocket science!” When Sarah puts her hand on his arm he fights not to shrug it off.

“Greg,” Sarah says quietly, and he looks away as he tries not to yell at her. “Calm down.”

“What on earth is going on?” Blythe says. Now she’s alarmed, and much less likely to comprehend what he says on first listen. “Greg, stop yelling and explain yourself!”

“Mom.” He says it with a clenched jaw. “Go to the bathroom and take off your makeup. All of it. _Please_.” He tacks on that last word in the forlorn hope it will forestall a cascade of comments and questions.

“Blythe,” Sarah says gently as his mother opens her mouth, “please do as he asks. You know it’s important or he wouldn’t be acting like this.”

Blythe blinks. She peers into the webcam. Then without a word she gets up and walks away. Greg sits back and lets go a breath, feels Roz’s hand slip into his. She says nothing. He returns the clasp and lets himself take comfort in the feel of her small fingers, warm and callused.

“I won’t ask what’s wrong,” Sarah says. “But when this call is done, if you want to talk, I’m here.”

He manages a nod, just as Blythe returns. Her face is still damp and a few strands of silver hair are darkened from moisture, but her skin is bare. She’s even removed her mascara and lipstick. “All right,” she says. “What now?”

“Get a bright light and bring it over.” A bead of sweat slides down his back under his layers of clothes. It occurs to him he’s overheated—he’ll deal with that later. Roz’s hand gives him a gentle squeeze.

“Oh god,” Sarah says very softly. Her gaze meets his. There’s fear, and a dawning knowledge. Roz moves just a little closer. He lets her.

Blythe brings back a small lamp without the shade and turns on the light. “Move it off-camera,” Greg says. “No, more—that’s it. Now I want you to move your head so your face is very close to the webcam.”

“What are you looking for?” Blythe sounds worried now. Greg doesn’t answer her. He’s fairly sure of what he’ll find, but he doesn’t want to say anything until he’s completely certain. As his mother obeys his commands he peers into the monitor.

“It’s still too damn dark,” he says. Sarah reaches over, uses the mouse to find the controls, and lets him bring up the resolution. “Mom, don’t move. Look straight ahead.”

She bites her lip but does as he asks. He examines her face, starting at the hairline and moving down. Nothing is apparent and he mutters a curse under his breath.

“Keep looking,” Amber whispers in his ear. “You’re three-quarters of the way there,” and chuckles softly.

Greg considers this statement. “Turn your head to the right—no, that’s too much. Back a bit—stop.” He stares at her three-quarters profile . . . and there it is, in the slight fold by her left nostril: a small mole. _Shit_. “Come closer.”

Blythe obliges. No one says anything as he studies the mole, takes in that papery texture to her skin that isn’t completely due to her age. When he does speak, his voice is rough, harsh. “You were out in the sun all summer without sunscreen.”

“No dear, I wasn’t,” Blythe says firmly. “I always use a hat when I work in the yard or go to the beach, you know that. And SPF 50. Heaven knows you and Doctor Barnes have told me enough times about it.”

“I want you to call your doctor. I know it’s late. Call him at home if you have to. Tell him you’ll meet him at the hospital. You need to be admitted right now.”

“Greg House, if you don’t tell me what’s going on—“ Blythe says, even as Roz draws in a breath. Her fingers squeeze his tightly.

“Melanoma,” he says, and winces. He is not the person to deliver this diagnosis; for the first time in a long while he wishes Wilson was here to use the right words, the sympathy and understanding, the comforting aura he does so well.

“ _Cancer?_ ” Blythe sits back. She turns off the light and stares into the webcam. Without the camouflage of her makeup, with profound sudden shock to add its toll, she looks every year of her age, tired and frightened. “Oh, Greg . . . are you—are you _sure?_ ”

He bites back the sarcastic reply on the tip of his tongue. This is his mother, after all, not some clueless clinic patient. She does take precautions, and he just dumped this on her with no warning. “Yes. Not one hundred per cent sure, but close. You can’t wait on this, Mom. You need to go in tonight.”

“But it’s just—it’s an age spot, Greg. I am eighty, you know.”

“Family history and lack of previous moles indicate this one is bad news,” Amber says. She leans in and lets her lips brush his cheek. “X instead of Y. Your sperm donor will be around for a while, but your mom . . .” She shakes her head in mock sorrow. “If you hadn’t been so busy pushing this to the back of your mind for the last two months, she might have made it.”

“Mom, just trust me on this,” he says. It feels like someone else says the words from a distance, the sound muffled. “Do what I say.”

“Do you have someone to be with you?” Sarah asks softly. Blythe blinks. After a moment she gives a hesitant nod.

“Yes, I can call my sister. She’ll—she’ll come over.” She looks into the webcam. “Thank you, Greg. Thank you for—for telling me. I know this was . . . was hard for you.”

“Let me know when you’re in the hospital. I want to talk to your doctor,” is all he can say. After the call ends Amber give him a pert smile. Her pale eyes gleam with satisfaction.

“My job here is done . . . for now,” she says, and hops off Gene’s desk. “See you around.”

“Don’t come back,” he says, and doesn’t care that no one else can hear her. She laughs.

“This isn’t about what you want. It’s about what you need. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” She saunters to the door. “All aboard,” she says, and she’s gone. Greg passes a hand over his eyes.

The next thing he knows, he’s in the kitchen with a mug of tea in front of him, and Sarah’s on the phone with Gene. Roz sits next to him, and she still holds his hand. The irony of what’s just transpired hits him, and he starts to laugh. “What is it?” Roz says. He shakes his head. She won’t understand why Wilson owes him ten bucks for once.

“Gene’s on the way,” Sarah says. She sounds calm, reassuring, but that’s her job, isn’t it? “You’re in shock, son. Take some deep breaths.” Her hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and he closes his eyes at the feel of that butterfly touch.

“I left it too late,” he says. “Amber said she won’t make it.”

“Contrary to popular medical opinion, you do not know everything,” Sarah says firmly. “How many patients have you had who made it against the odds?”

“It’s melanoma. The odds are stacked against her.” He takes the mug of tea, stares into it, and wishes he had some Booker’s to add to it. And that hits him too—he’s hit the sauce more over the last couple of months. It was so easy to put it down to holiday stress . . . “Mayfield,” he says, to test the sound of it.

“You do _not_ need rehab,” Sarah says. She rubs his shoulder gently. “You know if I thought you did, I’d say so.”

That’s true enough; his shrink rarely if ever pulls her punches with him. He takes a sip of tea, grimaces. It’s hot and sweet, and as disgusting as ever. “Go home,” he says to Roz.

“No.” She does not let go of his hand. “I’m staying.”

“I don’t want you here.” That’s a lie, a whopper of a lie, but he doesn’t want her to see what’s going to happen next. He’ll have to talk to Gene and Sarah about what’s happened, and he doesn’t want Roz to be a witness. She says she wants to stay, but Stacy used to say that kind of thing too, and eventually she couldn’t take it anymore and left.

“Then let go of my hand.”

 _Dammit, busted_. “You shouldn’t be here,” he mutters.

“Where should I be?” Now she sounds mad—but to his immense surprise she leans in and kisses him, her lips soft on his. When she pulls back, her moss-green eyes hold exasperation and love in equal amounts. “Shut up and deal. I’m not going anywhere.”

The only answer he can give her is a squeeze of her fingers. She returns it as Gene comes into the kitchen with Jason behind him. “We called off rehearsal,” he says, and the quiet concern in his voice. “Let’s go into the office. Jason, please excuse us.”

The kid doesn’t even argue; he just disappears, sax case under his arm. He gives Greg one quick glance as he passes by. Curiosity wars with a surprising worry in those dark eyes, but he says nothing, only goes out of the room.

In the office with the door closed, Gene says “I think it would be a good idea for you to take some Ativan tonight.”

“Don’t have any.” Gene nods.

“It’s been a while since you’ve needed it. I have some samples. Tomorrow I’ll call in a prescription for you.” He pauses. “It’s not a sign of weakness to know you need some help to maintain while the shit’s goin’ down.”

Greg doesn’t even have it in him to mock Gunney’s elegant and professional turn of phrase. “I’ve been drinking more,” he says.

“Self-medicating. If you’re used to doing it, it comes naturally.” Gene sits back a bit. “It’s in your best interests to cut back, but I’m not going to push you on it right now. We’ll have to take it into account with the prescription, but I think you’ll sort it out in the next week or so.”

Greg takes an Ativan with the last of the tea, just slugs it down and tries not to taste the bitterness that’s a combination of tea leaves and his own shame—he can’t help it, he feels like he’s failed. Then he and Roz go home. At the back door Sarah offers a gentle hug. “If you and Roz decide you need company, you’re always welcome to stay here,” she says. “But I think you’ll both do best at home. Call if you need us, okay?”

The walk home is accomplished in silence. They are just inside their own door when his phone rings. “Greg? I’m at the hospital. Doctor Barnes wants to talk to you.” Blythe sounds scared and uncertain. “Here he is.”

“Doctor House? Joe Barnes. Your mother’s been admitted and we’re working on setting up labs and procedures now.” He is not at all the pompous moron Greg expects; this man sounds competent and calm. “Let me give you my personal number. Call me anytime. I’d welcome your insights.”

It seems to take forever to get through the usual nightly rituals of wash, brush teeth, dump clothes on the floor; it feels like it’s three in the morning, though a glance at the clock tells Greg it’s only about nine-thirty or so. He finally finds himself on the edge of the bed. It’s a chilly night, so Roz has the electric blanket on. Hellboy is curled up in a fold of the quilt, nose tucked under his tail; the house is quiet, with just the sound of the wind outside, and the soft hiss of dry, powdery snow as it hits the window.

“Come on,” Roz says, and eases him down under the covers. She turns out the light and spoons behind him as she always does in colder weather. Her hand slides gently over his hip to rest on his thigh—the mended one, as it happens. The feel of her slender, warm palm on the site of the old scar gives him an odd, distant sense of comfort. Still, he lies there in the dark for a very long time, as he hears Amber’s words repeat endlessly in his head until the Ativan and sheer exhaustion drag him down.

_If you hadn’t been so busy pushing this to the back of your mind for the last two months, she might have made it._

_'Girls Talk,' Dave Edmunds_


	31. Chapter 31

_January 19th_

Roz woke to a feeling of something out of place. It was early; the first light of morning hadn’t even reached the windows yet. She shifted a bit, reached out to find no one next to her. Slowly she sat up, ran a hand through her hair, and tried to wake up enough to figure out what was going on. Eventually she pushed the covers aside, swung her legs out and felt for her bathrobe, then paused. Hellboy lay curled on top of the soft flannel, dead to the world. She looked down at him, sighed, and went out of the room.

The house was quiet, with the only sound the soft rustle of warm air as it rose from the heat vents in the floor. They’d used the fireplace the night before; the embers were neatly banked, just visible behind the screen. Roz stopped to rake them up a bit and place some kindling and a small log on top. While the fire didn’t really add that much heat to the room, it made it feel warmer. And she liked the bright, flickering light of the flames too. Once the wood had caught she replaced the screen and went to the study. It was usually where her husband holed up at night when insomnia came to call, if he wasn’t in the kitchen to munch his way through the contents of the fridge. The door was open a few inches, probably to keep the room warmer. She’d bought a ceramic heater, but it made little headway against the frigid temperatures they’d endured periodically over the last few weeks. Still, it felt fairly comfortable at the moment. As she peered around the door the smell of tobacco reached her, along with the sight of a red spark in the darkness. It was a further sign of trouble; usually he didn’t smoke in the house, he knew she didn’t like it. And there was no music, another warning signal. In the evenings or at night he played the piano with the damper on or listened to his playlist on headphones; she sometimes caught glimpses of him stretched out on the floor, lost in some beloved piece. But this . . . this was atypical, and therefore worth noting.

“In or out,” Greg said. His voice was rough; he sounded exhausted, impatient. Roz pushed the door open a bit and slipped in, to take a seat by the desk. She did it by feel more than anything else—the room was in almost total darkness, at least to her eyes. Now she could smell bourbon along with the tobacco.

“Did you get any sleep at all?” she asked quietly.

“What time is it?” he asked after a brief silence.

“A little before seven.”

He didn’t speak. She knew then she had a battle of both wits and wills ahead of her. Just for a moment she quailed. He was far better at this kind of thing than she was, he could run rings around her and laugh while he did it, and he probably would . . . but she knew this was his default method, an attempt to cope with something too big for him to face by himself, something he felt was caused by his failings in some way. He was such a mixture of iron strength and utter vulnerability . . .

“Got an extra glass?” she said.

“First step in creating a bond is to establish a link with the hostage taker. _Nice_.” The mockery stung.

“Actually I could use a little stiffening for what’s ahead.” She took a chance with that comment. It was a good gamble. The desk light switched on. Greg blinked at her. He looked pale, his hair tousled as if he’d run his fingers through it. He took a last drag on his smoke, crushed it out in the ashtray next to the keyboard. Roz saw he’d gone through at least half a pack. The bottle of Booker’s was half-empty as well. Without another word he poured a generous shot in the glass, handed it to her. She took it, drew a breath, dumped in the whole thing. It burned all the way down to her stomach. She couldn’t suppress a little shudder but she held out the glass. Greg raised his brows, but he tipped in another shot. The room was quiet enough for her to hear the burble of the liquor as it flowed into the crystal tumbler.

“You keep throwing ‘em back like that, you’ll be flat on your face in no time.”

Roz ignored his comment. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, you can do better than that. No protestations of undying love first, no vows to stay until the end of time? I’m disappointed.” Greg took the bottle in hand. His vivid eyes were slightly bloodshot, the lids red-rimmed with weariness.

“You know as well as I do if I said anything of the kind, you’d tell me I was full of it. So we start out at the beginning.” Roz sipped the bourbon. This time she tasted the sweetness instead of just the fire. It actually did help steady her a little. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“What’s _wrong_?” The loud, harsh words made her wince. “Well now, let me see . . . how about my mom’s got cancer and I sentenced her to death because I knew she had it and did _nothing_.” He took a slug of bourbon and swallowed. “ _Nothing_.”

Roz sat back. “So you’re not perfect. There’s a shock.”

“ _Fuck_ you.” Bourbon sloshed in the bottle as Greg took another long swallow. “Fuck you sitting there with a drink in your hand, pretending you want to make things all better.”

Ros went still as the hurt went home. Then she set the shot aside and stood up. “You know what? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it now: I’m not playing. This is you wallowing in self-pity and guilt, looking for someone to hurt. Okay, you go right ahead and find someone else. I’m not interested, thanks all the same.” She turned and opened the door, closed it behind her as she stalked through the living room and into the kitchen. The floor was cold on her feet and she realized she’d forgotten to put on her slippers. And she was chilled too. She went into the bedroom, shifted the sleeping cat from her robe to a spot under the quilt, put on the nicely-warmed flannel and slid her feet into her shabby old mules.

She’d settled at the kitchen table with her tutoring lesson for later that day when Greg said from the doorway “I never figured you for a chickenshit.”

“I’m not. But I’m also not volunteering to be a target. You—you have a good aim.” She cursed her voice for not being quite steady; he’d think she was manipulative, when that was not her objective. That little voice deep inside told her absolute honesty was the only course here, along with her love. She steered through dangerous waters, and one mistake could sink them both. “If I just sat there and took it, you’d think I was an idiot and feel nothing but contempt for me. And I’m not smart enough to keep up a word war for long with you. So—so this is it. I choose not to participate. You want to wallow—go ahead. I won’t stop you. But I won’t be part of it either.” She picked up her pen and made a note with hands that shook.

“Quite a speech.” The mockery was blatant.

“I mean every word of it.” She opened a book and found her place, made a note in the lesson plan, took her time, and gave the small effort more concentration than it really needed. “I’ll make breakfast in an hour or so.” When he didn’t answer, she looked up to find he was gone. The tears that had threatened came on full force. She cursed under her breath and set down the pen, grabbed a paper napkin from the holder and wiped her eyes. If he saw her cry he’d really pour it on and she didn’t think she could stand it. He was hurting badly, or he wouldn’t try so hard to get her mad at him.

She’d just finished the second part of the lesson when a tumbler was placed on the counter next to her. It contained a shot of bourbon. Roz understood the challenge: would she drink, or ignore it? She set her pen aside and picked it up, took a sip, set it down. “It’s wasted on me, you know,” she said quietly. “I can’t really tell the difference between this and Jim Beam. You should keep the good stuff for yourself.”

After a moment his hand came to rest on her shoulder. He said nothing, just stood next to her; she could feel the warmth of his body, smell the stale tobacco and liquor, and under it the male scent of him, familiar, known and comforting even under current circumstances.

“I don’t know how to help,” she whispered. For a moment fear flooded her, fear that she’d lose him, that he’d walk away because she couldn’t offer him a good reason to stay. “Tell me what to do, _amante_.” His hand tightened gently.

“Get breakfast ready,” was all he said.

They ate at the harvest table by his choice, in the weak sunshine of morning, and the radio on in the background with the news and the usual Sunday morning interest stories. Greg had cleaned up; his hair was still damp from the shower and he’d put on fresh jeans and a long-sleeved thermal under an old sweatshirt. He poured a large mug of coffee and took some of the food, though not nearly as much as he usually did. Still, he ate most of it and seemed to like the fried apples best—a recipe from his father, one Hawkeye had made for them several times during his stay.

Once they’d eaten Roz cleared everything away and put the dishes in the washer. Then she hung up her apron and went to Greg. She took his hand. “Come on,” she said, and led him to the bedroom. He watched as she eased the quilt and blanket back, then stood by the bed.

“That’s your solution?” he said. He sounded angry and worse, anxious.

“Yes,” Roz said simply. “You need to sleep, or at least rest. You’re exhausted. I’ve heard you up every night this past week, since you spoke with your mom. Neither one of us has to be anywhere today, and I’m going to reschedule my lesson with Mandy this afternoon so the house will be quiet.”

He hovered in the doorway and glared at her. Roz waited. She knew any further words or movement on her part would spook him, give him an excuse to withdraw to the office. At last he came in and moved to his side. After a few moments he perched on the edge of the bed. He fought it all the way, Roz saw it in his stiff shoulders and how he wouldn’t look at her. “Lie down,” she said softly.

“I know how it works,” he snapped, but it was some time before he managed to get under the covers. Once he’d done so Roz sat beside him. She put her hand on his back. He tensed under her touch. “You don’t have to coddle me, I’m not three years old.”

 _Could have fooled me_ , Roz thought. Aloud she said “I know that.” She let her hand rest lightly on the spot above his right shoulderblade, where he often had arthritic pain when the weather changed or got cold; the hard lump that always resided there was larger than usual. She didn’t attempt massage, just let the warmth of her hand penetrate the area. At first he was unresponsive. Gradually he relaxed; his breathing deepened, slowed as he descended unwillingly, moment by moment, into sleep.

She stayed there for a while to keep watch, and hoped she would be able to help him when he woke and took up his fears once more.


	32. Chapter 32

_January 22nd_

It is near the end of a long and unproductive day. Greg is more than ready for everything and everyone to go away, down into that long dark tunnel of forgetfulness he provides for himself through the magic of alcohol and outright cruelty perpetrated on the idiots around him. He’s waged his campaign with more vigor than he might otherwise. He takes perverse satisfaction in the way people fall silent when he walks into a room, or they avoid him when they can get away with it. Even his wife has withdrawn to some extent, though some of that is due to his silence with her; he knows if he talks for any length of time right now to anyone, even her, the cruelty will spill out, corrosive and poisonous.

There is a small part of him hidden away deep inside that pounds on a locked door with bloodied fists and shouts for help, for someone to come and let him out of this bare, tiny little room in which he’s put himself. He knows that to follow the path he’s on is to invite the destruction of everything he’s gained over the last four and a half years. But he can’t seem to help himself; the situation plays out the way it always does. And maybe that’s the truth, after all.

He’s roused out of his thoughts by a knock on his office door. McMurphy watches him with that sharp gaze that sees far too much for his comfort. “Got a visitor,” she says, and moves aside to reveal Gene Goldman.

“Rut-roh,” Greg says. McMurphy rolls her eyes and goes out, to close the door behind her. Gunney moves into the office. He still wears his outdoor gear and a black watch cap; he looks like he could be on sortie. The realization kicks in that he is, and Greg is the intended target. Forewarned, forearmed.

“Mind if I sit?” Goldman asks. Greg gestures at one of the nice visitor’s chairs McMurphy foisted off on him.

“Help yourself. Just don’t stay long enough to warm the seat.”

Gunney gives him a half smile. “I’m only here till the end of Jason’s anatomy tutoring session.”

Greg gives the conference room a quick glance. The kid is in residence with Chase. The two of them work together, heads bent over a book. The sight gives him an odd little pang of—what? Regret, anxiousness, fear? The feeling is gone so fast he can’t categorize it. “Doing wifey’s dirty work,” he says aloud.

“You know as well as I do that Sarah Jane is perfectly capable of coming down here herself to talk with you,” Goldman says.

“So you’re doing this on your own initiative. Hmm . . .” Greg taps a finger against his lips. “I’m sure there’s an interesting motive involved.”

Goldman sits back a bit. “I could say it’s friendship, but you’re more likely to believe in enlightened self-interest. They aren’t mutually exclusive, anyway.”

True enough. “Who’s been bitching about me?”

Goldman doesn’t answer the question. Instead he says quietly, “Using the same old methods and expecting different results won’t work.”

“I don’t expect different results, I expect the ones I’ve always gotten.” Greg tips his chair back and folds his arms, gives Goldman what he hopes is a belligerent look. “Hope that clears things up for you. Screen door, ass, et cetera.” He gestures at the exit. Goldman doesn’t move.

“Your mom has cancer. Her doctor has said the prognosis looks more promising than most because it was discovered in the early stages. You’re the one who’s decided to let guilt cloud your judgment. And no, Sarah hasn’t said anything. I can observe behavior and figure out the motivation behind it most of the time, especially when someone’s acting out the way you are.”

“’Acting out’?” Greg does his best to sound incredulous, though in truth it’s a phrase that describes his recent behavior fairly accurately. “Nice way to dismiss my point of view.”

“You can take it that way if you like,” Goldman says mildly. “I would suggest you take it to heart instead.”

“And if I don’t, I get a visit from my significant mother.” With a bravado he doesn’t feel, he gives Goldman a level stare. “Bring it on. I prefer a straight fight to all this sneakin’ around.”

Goldman acknowledges this jibe with raised brows, then a nod. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Greg refuses to admit that simple statement makes him anxious. “So the jackboots are gonna take me away for the rubber hose sessions. Sooner rather than later, I presume.”

“I could say that would be telling, but to be honest I don’t know.” Goldman gets up from the chair, straightens his lean frame. “It’ll be in her own time, in her own way. You know that.”

Yes, he knows that. So he’ll take the initiative and pull control of the game back to his side of the board. “Thanks for the warning.”

“It’s not a warning. It’s advice from someone who’s been there.” Goldman goes to the door, pauses. “If you let the past dictate your actions, you let them win.”

“And that cryptic statement is supposed to mean something.”

“You know exactly what it means.” His soft words cut through Greg’s false front like a hot wire on raw silk. “If you decide to blow it all up, then John House really was right. And we both know that’s bullshit.” With that he pulls up his collar and exits the office. Greg gives him full marks for drama, even while he tries to push away what Gunney’s just said. It’s difficult but he manages it, with the help of some bourbon and music played loud enough to drown out that quiet voice.

He’s deep in the middle of an extensive search for new porn when Chandler says from his doorway, “Are we supposed to be intimidated by all this nastiness? Because if we are, it’s not working.”

Greg spares her a glance. “Is someone speaking?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Chandler shrugs her backpack strap a bit higher on her shoulder.

“No, seriously. I keep hearing this nagging echo.”

Chandler rolls her eyes and departs without further comment. Greg turns his attention back to the monitor, to find his antivirus has freaked out over an attack from someone or something. He mutters under his breath and gets to work.

By the time everything’s cleaned up, the clinic is nearly deserted. The ‘nearly’ is a needed qualifier, and not because McMurphy’s around to restock supplies or fight with some lab on the phone; his shrink stands in the doorway. Greg sits back and swallows on a dry throat.

“Bringing the battle to the enemy front,” he says finally.

“That’s one way to look at it.” Sarah doesn’t move. “May I come in?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake sit down!” he snaps. His breath hitches in his chest. Sarah moves into the office, closes the door behind her, takes the same chair Gunney chose. She sits down and says nothing, just looks at him. “What, no words of reproach? No sad little sighs of disappointment? No enthusiastic coaching or rainbow bunny—“

“Greg.” She cuts across his babble. “Calm down.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” He eyes her, sizes her up. He can’t tell what she’s thinking from her expression, and her gaze is shuttered, impassive. This is not good. She only does this when she works a long con. “Might as well get started.”

Sarah nods. “Okay, session’s in session. Let’s begin.”


	33. Chapter 33

“Okay, session’s in session. Let’s begin.”

Sarah sat back a bit and observed her subject—she might as well, he’d expect it anyway. Greg stared back at her, shifted his gaze away, but not before she saw the profound fear there, almost hidden behind the defiance he put on display. Her deep affection for him welled up, but she knew better than to show her hand; he’d never accept it, not at this stage.

“So, we’re back where we started,” Greg said. Sarah tilted her head a little and kept her eyes on him.

“What makes you say that?”

“Ah, classic rejoinder.” He started to rub his thigh, took his hand away, fidgeted for a moment. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“This from the man who says the word ‘obvious’ should be stricken from the English language,” Sarah said mildly. “Let’s say for the sake of argument I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing new there.” The mockery held a sharp edge, ready to draw blood. Sarah said nothing; she wasn’t about to grasp that blade unless necessity drove her to it. “What, no snarky response, no reassurances of love and hope? You’re slipping.”

“I’m waiting for you to explain.”

Greg looked away. “No explanation needed for anyone with half a brain.”

There was a brief silence. Sarah waited. When she spoke, she kept her voice light, almost flippant. “So one halfway decent test comes your way, and you decide to blow up everything you’ve made for yourself.”

“My mother’s cancer is not a test,” Greg snapped. “You think using pejorative terms will get a rise out of me. It’s stupid, so stop it.”

“It worked,” Sarah said quietly. “So this is you deciding that rather than face what’s ahead, you’ll strap on a suicide vest and go for broke.”

“Again with the explosive metaphors.”

“They fit. You’re self-destructing.”

“Over nothing?” His gaze raked her, diamond-sharp.

“I didn’t say that. Knowing someone you love has cancer is not nothing.” Sarah carefully kept her personal sorrow out of that sentence. “From what I’ve seen this past week, you’re assuming the worst right from the start.”

“ _Melanoma_. Look it up. Makes for interesting reading.”

“So what did Wilson have to say when you talked with him?” She smiled a little when Greg’s gaze darted away once more. “Come on, you didn’t really think I wouldn’t know he’d be the first person you’d go to about this.”

“The usual bullshit. It’s not a death sentence, there’s a chance, blah blah.” Greg paused. “I did tell him he owed me ten bucks.”

“The eternal cheapskate,” Sarah said wryly. “I’d bet dollars to doughnuts he told you he got it back by talking with you about Blythe.”

“He has to collect it in person.” Greg shifted in his chair. “She’ll be dead by the time he comes east this spring.”

“Gregory,” Sarah said, and let her exasperation show now. “Why are you putting a worst-case spin on this?”

“Because it is a worst case! _I_ _fucked up_.” He glared at her. “Got it? Expressed in basic English so even you can understand. I saw that mole two months ago and did nothing. Two months in melanoma time is a fucking death sentence!”

“You suppressed the knowledge,” Sarah said softly. “Why do you think you did that?”

“Why do you think you did that?” Greg mimicked her in a cracked falsetto.

“It’s a fair question.”

“You’d think you come up with something original after nearly five years.”

“Sometimes the tried-and-true works just fine.” Sarah kept her voice steady. “You haven’t answered the question.”

“I don’t know what part of ‘I fucked up’ you find incomprehensible,” Greg snapped.

“Blaming yourself for the situation is the easy way out,” Sarah said.

“Not when the blame is mine to begin with.”

“Oh, bullshit.” She let the tartness show now. “That’s so convenient.”

“ _Convenient?_ ” Greg’s voice rose. “Do tell.”

Sarah tipped her head back and squinted at him. “You been killin’ off too many brain cells with alcohol, son. It’s _obvious_ ,” she stressed the word and kept a straight face when he rolled his eyes, “obvious, I say. Rather than face what’s really going on, you choose to panic.”

Greg said nothing, just watched her with a wariness that told her he understood what she meant, even if he didn’t plan to let her know she was right. Sarah gave a mental sigh. She’d known he wouldn’t back down easily in this confrontation. “Carl Sagan once said he found it ironic that given the state of human affairs at this point in time, our most notable achievement as a species might be to cause our own extinction by initiating a global thermonuclear holocaust, all because a meteor hit a city without warning.” She lifted her chin a bit. “You fit very nicely into that category.”

“I don’t even know where to begin with the logical inconsistencies inherent in that statement,” Greg said after a moment.

“You can answer the question and avoid further mental pain,” Sarah pointed out. Greg scrubbed a hand over his face. For just a moment he looked tired and scared, and terribly uncertain.

“You want me to say I love my mom,” he said finally.

“No, I want you to answer the question truthfully,” Sarah said. “Is that your reply?”

Greg glared at her before he moved his gaze away. “A shrink who doesn’t want her patient to say he loves his mother. You’re a freak among your kind, you know.”

“I want you to say it if it’s really the answer. Is it?”

He tipped his chair back, stared at the ceiling for a few moments. “When I was six,” he said slowly, “we moved to Cairo. It was Dad’s idea of a vacation, taking a break from bombing villages to instruct other people in how to do it. We’d been on various American bases up to that point but we hadn’t ever left the country. I remember the flight . . . Mom gave me the window seat. And when we got to the housing they’d assigned us she made up my bed first, even though it annoyed the hell out of Dad.”

“You must have been overwhelmed,” Sarah said. Greg gave a brief nod.

“Fascinated too. Mom knew that. It was about the only time she ever put me before Dad, when we moved to new countries. She always told him it was because taking care of me first gave her more time with him, and maybe that was true to some extent . . . but she made sure I was settled in and had everything I needed.”

“Except the one thing you really needed,” Sarah said softly. Greg made an impatient gesture.

“She did what she could.”

 _And that’s why you expect nothing but crumbs from other peoples’ tables_. Sarah said nothing further however, simply waited for him to continue.

“Dad left almost everything up to her, he just expected her to be ready on the date he gave her. There was no question of us showing up late. Not much time for anything but packing up and getting us to transportation in one piece.” He lowered his gaze to Sarah’s before he glanced away. “It would have been unreasonable to expect more than she had the ability or inclination to offer. Dad was already doing that and it pushed her into addiction. I wasn’t going to add to that.”

“You’re her child,” Sarah said. “You had a right to her unconditional love.”

“Analysts have a right to make obvious statements too.” Greg kept his gaze averted. “Don’t project your lack of nurturing onto my childhood.”

“I’m not,” Sarah said mildly. “You have plenty of your own, you don’t need mine.”

“I had everything I needed. Shelter, clothes, food—“

“That’s John House talking. I’m sure he took every opportunity to tell you how well-off you were. To some extent that might be true when it comes to material things, but a family is composed of more than a house, clothes and food on the table.”

“You forgot rules,” Greg said. For a moment the bitterness showed; dark, corrosive.

“I’d imagine the rules were more important than anything else.”

Greg swung his gaze to her. After a moment he snorted softly. “Nice try.”

Sarah didn’t answer him immediately. “Cognitive dissonance,” she said finally.

“The psychological conflict resulting from incongruous beliefs and attitudes held simultaneously,” Greg said slowly.

“A definition right out of the dictionary. Nicely done. How do you think it applies here?”

“Tipping your hand, Goldman.”

“Leading up to a point,” Sarah said.

“And that would be?”

“You tell me.” She ignored his sigh of exasperation. “There _is_ a point, you know. We’re getting closer to it, but you made a decision a long time ago never to express your emotions about what happened during your childhood with your mother, and so here we are, stacked up over the airport waiting to land.”

“You and your metaphors.” Greg wagged a finger at her. “No good will come of that tendency, you know.”

“You’re just jealous because I’m pushing into your territory.” _I could really go for a cup of tea . . . Focus, Corbett._ “All right, let’s figure out what that term might mean to you.” She eased back in the chair and shifted her weight onto her un-sore hip.

“Have you had that looked at lately?” Greg’s words were sharp with concern and annoyance.

“Yes,” Sarah said. “I do live with a pain management specialist and a would-be doctor, not to mention all the people I see at the clinic. There are some arthritic changes. I’ll probably have to get it replaced some years down the road.”

“None of which you’d need if you hadn’t taken that dive trying to save the yard ape.”

“You know me well enough by now to understand your statement is superfluous.” Sarah watched Greg. “But I can turn it to my purpose, so thank you for the opportunity. You wish your own mom had done something like it for you. Because she never did, did she? She never stuck her neck out for you, not once.”

Greg stared at her. “I just told you—“

“Nope. Blythe would never have risked truly angering John. She knew he’d put up with some inconvenience if it meant getting you off her list first. It was practicality. I don’t blame her for that, but she could have added some quality time for you to her chores. And she didn’t, did she? You were expected to take care of yourself.”

“I was old enough—“

“ _No_.” Sarah leaned forward. “No, you weren’t. Not to the extent she neglected you. Every child needs structure. Not just rules and discipline, but the knowledge that home is a place of safety and love, of encouragement and attention. Parents aren’t supposed to warehouse their kids for eighteen years and then send them off into the world to fend for themselves.”

“She didn’t do that!” Greg said. His voice had risen. “She took care of me!”

“She did the minimum amount required,” Sarah said softly.

“She—she made sure I had music lessons, she got me books—“

“To keep you occupied. You weren’t the easiest child to deal with, she said it herself.”

“You want me to say I hate her for that? Fine, I hate her for that!” Greg’s voice shook.

“I want you to tell me whatever you’re feeling,” Sarah said.

“You’ve already made up your mind about how I feel!”

“I’m trying to get you to tell me. If you won’t be forthcoming then I have to make educated guesses. And my guess is you have equal measures of love and deep resentment for your mother. She was the only refuge you had during your childhood, but her shelter was based on her criteria, not yours.”

Greg got to his feet, his hand on his right thigh. “Fine. You’ve gotten what you want.”

“Sit down.” When he stayed on his feet, Sarah gave him a level stare. “ _Sit_. We are nowhere near finished, in fact we’ve barely begun.”

Slowly he obeyed. “Don’t you have to go home and make dinner or bake cookies for the indigent or something?”

“My men know how to take care of themselves. Now, back to cognitive dissonance.”

“Shit. You do keep using big words.” Greg reached down to open a bottom drawer. He brought up a bottle of Booker’s and a crystal tumbler and poured a shot. He flicked a little glance her way. Sarah felt a spurt of amused exasperation. _Always the limit-pusher. He must have driven Blythe round the bend on many occasions. She’s not flexible enough to deal with someone like him._

“Numbing out won’t help,” she said. “You know that.”

“More like liquid courage. You’re nothing if not implacable.” He downed the shot, poured another.

“When I have to be,” Sarah said. “You could make things a lot easier on yourself if you’d just tell me what you’re feeling about your mom.”

“Someone wants a cuppa.” Greg took the shot but didn’t drink it.

“Yes, but not until we get past this sticking point.” She didn’t relax or move her gaze away from him. “Tell me, Greg. I’m happy to sit here all night until you do.”

“You’re presuming I’m willing to do the same.” He sipped the bourbon now, balanced the glass with care against his chest.

“I know where you live.” Sarah brushed a curl from her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. “I’ll follow you home and sit on your doorstep.”

“In this weather? You’d be frozen solid faster than it takes to say ‘emotional blackmail’.” Greg took another sip of liquor.

“Why do you think you’re having so much trouble with such a simple request?”

“Why do you keep asking me about it? You’ve already figured out what I’m feeling!” His hand shook slightly as he finished off the shot.

“I’ve given you some hypotheses, but you haven’t told me jack shit, not in so many words.” Sarah dared to push just a little harder with an obvious ploy. “Maybe that’s because you know I’m right.”

Greg looked down his nose at her. The effect of the alcohol was apparent, which told her he’d started before she’d come in; his gaze was a bit more unfocused, and he fidgeted. “Cheap and _obvious_ ploy.”

“It was worth a try.” She folded her arms and returned his stare. “Fine, here’s a better one. What exactly do you think will happen if you admit you have ambivalent emotions about your mom?”

“ _Ambivalent?_ ” His hand rubbed his thigh. “There’s no—“ He stopped.

“She grew to love you in her own way, but you always knew there was resentment behind it,” Sarah said quietly. “You always felt that edge of anger from her, because you existed. And it didn’t matter what you did, what you said, it never went away. You thought it was your fault because kids always do think that, when something’s wrong. But you also knew that to say anything might lose you the only protection you had against John House’s abuse, and even bad shelter is better than none at all.”

If Greg had looked scared before, now he was absolutely terrified. Sarah’s heart ached for the confused and frightened little boy he’d been and still was in some ways, but she didn’t soften her stance. He had to tell her himself, had to acknowledge those feelings, for a deeper healing to begin. And he needed that healing, she knew it beyond any shadow of a doubt.

“You want your pound of flesh,” he said, his voice so low she could barely hear him. “Fine. I want something in return. _Quid pro quo_ , Clarice.”

She’d anticipated his demand. “Nice allusion. Okay, go ahead.”

He set the empty glass on the desk. “Your brother. How long does he have?”

Sarah winced inwardly. Aloud she said “A few more weeks, maybe. He’s—his condition has deteriorated. Not unexpected,  just a little sooner than we thought.”

“And how do you feel about him? _Ambivalent?_ ” Greg’s tone held scathing mockery, but Sarah chose to take it seriously.

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “That’s exactly the right word. I love him, always have from the moment he came home from the hospital. I took one look at that noisy little baby with the ginger fuzz on his head, and I knew he was mine to care for—Mom wouldn’t bother about him, he was just another nuisance to her, like the rest of us.” She sighed softly. “He tore me to shreds and stomped all over my heart, broke my trust and lost my respect. I still love him, but there’s a lot of anger there too for everything he did to hurt me.” She watched Greg’s long fingers massage an ache no longer there. “I know about ambivalence. It’s a damn bitch. But it’s just what is. Admitting it helped me have a little more time with Matt that I wouldn’t have gotten otherwise.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Your turn.”

Greg took his hand from his thigh, reached out to play with the shot glass. After a moment he put it down, filled it with bourbon, but didn’t drink. “There’s no point to this,” he said.

“There’s a good point. You need to tell another person how you feel about your mom. The truth, not the whitewash people expect.” She kept her tone gentle but firm. “No one’s gonna punish you for saying what you feel out loud. You won’t get in trouble. You know everything that’s said here is confidential. Whatever you say to me stays with me. I’ve proven my _bona fides_ there, you know I have.”

“Mmm.” He looked down. “One more question.”

“ _Quid pro quo_ ,” she reminded him.

“Then you’ll get two from me,” he snapped, and took the shot, dumped it in. “Why—why did you love your brother? Why him? He wasn’t anyone special, still isn’t.”

Sarah took a breath. She had to be careful here—a single word out of place and she’d lose him, but so would an untruth or even a hint of her hesitating. “Part of it was my age,” she said. “I was at the right stage of development to want a doll, and Matt filled that requirement perfectly. But there was something . . . a connection between us. I felt it the moment I saw him.”

Greg sat still, so unmoving he could have been carved from stone. “What . . . what’s that like?” he said after a long silence. He sounded uncertain, bewildered.

“One of the best things in the world,” Sarah said, “and one of the worst, when it’s broken deliberately by someone who knows they’re hurting you, and does it anyway.” She closed her eyes for a moment.

“She thinks she loves me,” Greg said after another lengthy pause. “But she has this image in her head of . . . of someone else. Someone who isn’t me.” He looked away. “Someone who could never be. And that’s who she loves.”

“Now tell me how you feel about that,” Sarah said.

“How do I _feel?_ ” He picked up the tumbler. She saw the temptation, saw it glimmer in her mind’s eye as it smashed against the wall in a thousand glittering shards. Then he set the glass away from him and put the cap on the bottle. “Like I shoved knowing about that fucking mole deep inside so she’d die. So I’d never—I wouldn’t have to keep trying when it’s—when she—“ His voice faltered, cracked. Sarah stayed still. He would not accept comforting at this stage, not yet--it had to be his choice. She knew that about him, and respected his boundaries in this area at least. She had to give him some autonomy or he’d close down completely.

“Isn’t . . . isn’t this supposed to make me feel all better?” he said after a while.

“You feel worse for a while,” Sarah said. “The emotions you’ve been keeping stuffed down inside, they come out. It hurts.”

“Now you tell me.” He sighed and passed a hand over his face. “We done here?”

“Not quite.” She smiled a little at his groan. “No, now we get to the good things.” She sat up a bit. “You believe no one sees you for who you are, but I know several people who do. Your wife, for one.”

He didn’t answer right away. Sarah could almost see him turn her statement over in his mind, examine it for flaws. “She’s probably got her bags packed,” he said.

“I have it on good authority that she’s making dinner as we speak.” Sarah chose her next words with care. “Talk with her about this, when you’re ready. You already know Roz is a good listener. I think you’ll find she sees you very clearly.”

“And loves me anyway,” Greg finished, his tone wry.

“Most spouses do,” Sarah said, and stretched a bit. “I’m definitely ready for that cup of tea.”

“You said several,” Greg said. Sarah hid a smile. So needy and so unwilling to show it most of the time . . .

“Gene knows you,” she said, “and Jason. McMurphy, your team . . . Chelsea Butterman.” She let her smile show now. “And me.”

Greg didn’t move. “ _Why?_ ” he said. It was not quite a whisper. “Why do you want to?”

Now she did reach out, moving before he could pull back, and put her hand on his. His fingers were cold. “Because you’re worth knowing,” she said. “You’re prickly and an incorrigible smartass, and god knows you exasperate the living hell out of me at times, but after everything you’ve gone through I’d expect that. In fact I’d be more worried if you sanded off your rough edges to fool people into thinking you were nice.”

That startled a laugh out of him. “Wilson’s got that covered, I don’t need to do it.” His fingers clasped hers, tightened on them for a moment or two before he let go. After a moment he stood up, blinking. “Now we’re done.”

“I’m taking you home,” Sarah said firmly. “Get your coat and let’s go.”

“That’s good coming from you,” he said, but he took his pea jacket from the chair where he’d probably dumped it that morning, and put it on. “You’re suffering from caffeine deficiency, what makes you think you’ll do any better behind the wheel?”

“Maybe so, but they don’t arrest people for DWCT,” she said.

“You’re gonna tell me what it means whether I like it or not.” He opened the office door and ushered her out.

“Driving while craving tea,” she said. “Gene or I can bring you in tomorrow.”

The ride home was accomplished in silence. Greg looked out the window, his expression impassive, but Sarah knew he was going through their session, think about what she’d said, dissect the exchange from both sides—from all sides, as he always did.

“What will you do about your mom?” she said.

“Get her the best care available,” he said quietly. “Whatever her real feelings for me were, and are, she did the best she could with me. That counts for something.” He glanced at her. “She deserves that much at least.”

Sarah nodded. “You know you can count on Gene and me to help in any way we can,” she said.

She’d pulled up to the door and he gotten out when she said, “Talk to Roz. Let her in. She trusts you. Show her you trust her too.”

Greg grabbed his backpack. “I’m surrounded by sentimental morons,” he grumbled, then bent down, leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Thanks,” he said, and Sarah heard the unspoken _mother_ after the single word. Then he was gone, as his long legs carried him up the steps and into his home, with the door shut firmly behind him. Sarah grinned at that. She backed Minnie Lou out of the driveway and went home herself, ready for dinner, a cuppa and an uncomplicated evening with her husband and her youngest boy.


	34. Chapter 34

_January 22nd_

It has been a long and arduous day—one of the longest in recent memory. Greg sits in the living room at the piano. For the first time in a week a shot of bourbon is absent from its usual spot, perched on a coaster within easy reach. He’s made a decision to ease off on the alcohol for a while. He’ll use the Ativan Gene prescribed as his excuse, but in reality he knows he drank a little too much for someone with a liver undoubtedly damaged by years of substance abuse. Not all that long ago he wouldn’t have cared in the least, but now he’s got a good reason or two to take care of himself.

As he plays, he can see the first of those reasons through the open door of the study. Roz sits at the desk, books open in front of her as she conducts a Skype tutoring session with Mandy. The roads are too treacherous to travel after a windy day has created enormous drifts of snow on every corner and flat stretch. And it’s bitterly cold as well, he can feel the chill creep across the floor despite insulation, efficient heating and the straw bales they have packed around the foundation outside. It’s comfortable in the house, but winter still manages to make its presence known, as it always does.

Roz looks tired. In the concentrated light of the desk lamp, he can see faint smudges under her eyes. She’s lost some weight too, something that only happens when she’s upset or deeply worried; her strong, angular features are a little more prominent. It’s a clear indicator of the distress he’s caused her over the last week.

Eventually she ends the session, marks her place in a couple of the books, writes down some notes, her head bent over her work. She makes a charming picture, the golden light soft on her thick sable hair, the dark locks shaped in the cap-of-feathers style that suits her so well. Greg continues to play as he watches her. She is absorbed in her work, intent. He knows she puts an immense amount of effort into her tutoring, and it means a great deal to her. She’s a natural teacher and is almost completely unaware of her talent and skill, which makes it even more potent.

After a few minutes he abandons his piano, gets up and goes to the doorway of the study. He leans against the door frame and says nothing. Roz glances over, gives him a smile that’s genuine if brief. She’s spoken little over the last few days, and he knows that’s down to his behavior too, along with the lost weight and the tiredness. He feels a deep sense of shame at the changes in her behavior. To cover it he folds his arms. “Hey,” he says. “How’s the remedial math project going?”

Roz sits back a bit. “Pretty well,” she says. Her slender fingers play with a pencil, turn it idly back and forth.

“You have other lessons tonight,” he guesses. She shakes her head.

“No, just Mandy.”

“Cutting back on your charity work.” The words come out before he can stop them. The pencil hangs suspended in her fingers.

“It’s not charity work,” she says after a brief, charged silence. Her voice is low, quiet, but he can hear the tension in it, the struggle to not rise to the bait. And the hurt; he’s just demeaned her for no good reason other than to make a smartass remark.

“Could have fooled me.” _Don’t do this_ , a little voice deep within says with some urgency. _Don’t_. He ignores it.

Roz stands up. The pencil is placed on the blotter with deliberate precision. That simple action sends a chill up Greg’s spine. When he looks at her, he knows what’s coming.

“That is _enough_.” She faces him squarely, her gaze steady. Her eyes are moss-green.

“The truth hurts.”

She regards him for a few moments. Then she shuts down the computer, turns out the light and stalks past him to go into the living room. When he follows her, she’s just banked the fire. Her temper is on the rise, he can tell.

“Going to bed already--“ he begins, and she slaps the firescreen in place.

“I said that’s enough!” She turns to stand in front of him, filled with anger and worse, pain. “You don’t have to do this! Tell me what’s wrong!”

“You’re not my shrink,” he tosses back.

“I _know_ that!” She runs a hand through her hair in exasperation; he sees the soft locks glimmer in the lamplight, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to run his fingers through her hair, and enjoy her warmth. He’s sick of being locked in his misery, sick of standing alone because he’s pushed everyone away. But he can’t seem to break out of this loop.

“Could have fooled me,” he snaps. That is a cheap and totally undeserved slap.

“Oh, _bullshit!_ I haven’t pushed you on talking to me, I’ve backed off when it was clear you needed me to do it! I’ve tiptoed around you for days! Don’t you _dare_ accuse me of prying!” This has gone beyond annoyance right to real fury. The knowledge frightens him. He struggles with the urge to hit harder, wrestles with it, gains the upper hand, temporarily at least.

“I’m sorry,” he says, but it comes out sullen and resentful. Roz glares at him.

“Liar.” Her voice shakes a little. Now he’s hurt her again. Panic rises inside him.

“No,” he says. “No—I mean it.” He takes a breath, tries to say it so he doesn’t cause more damage. “Roz—I don’t—I didn’t . . .” It figures his brain would go on lockdown now, when he needs it to give him something pithy and direct and powerful to stop this disaster. “It’s—it’s my mom.”

She gives him a withering look. “No fucking kidding.”

“ _No!_ ” He hears how sharp he sounds and pulls it down, deliberately softens his tone. ”That’s not what I--I mean—some things about her, about—about my childhood—“ He doesn’t know how to say it, how to tell her what’s been in his head since his session with Sarah. “ _Fuck_ this,” he says under his breath, frustrated by his inability to get the words out.

“No—go on.” When he looks at her in surprise, Roz makes an impatient gesture. “I’m still mad at you but you need to tell me this, so—so just do it.”

“Why, so you can shoot me down?” he snaps.

“I wouldn’t do that.” _Not like you would_. He hears the unspoken rider as clearly as if she had gone ahead and said it out loud. He can’t get this right no matter what he tries. He’s doing what he always—

“ _Stop_ it! Stop overthinking this!” Roz looks as though she wants to shake him. “Dammit, just say it! I won’t use it to hurt you, okay?”

“Other people have.” He swallows hard at the memory of the few times in the past when he’d dared to open up to someone. While those times have receded with the acceptance he’s gained here, they still have the power to frighten him, when he wakes in the night and remembers.

“I’m not other people.” Roz doesn’t move. “ _Amante_ , make up your mind right now. Either you trust me, or you don’t. You have to decide one way or the other.”

He nods absently. He knows she’s right, but the old instinct to hide behind his armor is very strong at the moment. He feels vulnerable and scared and as if he’s lost everything that has any meaning to him, past or present. “I . . . I do. Trust you, I mean.”

“Come on,” she says after an uncertain silence, and goes to the couch. She gently moves the cat, curled up in a nest he made in the afghan, and sits with care. Greg perches next to her, unsure and awkward, almost afraid to get so close. “Now tell me what you want to tell me, and don’t worry about making it sound right.”

“So patient and understanding.” He knows he’s about to push past the limits of what she’ll put up with.

“Greg.” She waits until he lifts his gaze to hers. “If you keep smacking me I’m gonna smack you back and I won’t care if it hurts you. I’d rather not do that, but I will if I have to. Do you understand?”

Something like relief floods through him. He nods.

“Good. Now _tell_ me, dammit.”

He stares down at her hands as they rest on her thighs. He often studies them when she’s asleep; they’re beautiful, slender and strong, work-worn, capable, graceful. The mutilated little finger sends a splinter of remembered terror down deep inside; he’d pushed her away then too. He reaches out, takes her lovely hands in his, holds them gently. With that action the words spill out, like a cup tipped over. He tells her all of it, the whole sorry history of him and Blythe, how he’d believed she stood with him, and the truth of their relationship.

When he’s done he looks at her. Roz returns his gaze. There are tears on her lashes. “She shouldn’t have done that,” she says.

“You weren’t there,” he says roughly. “You don’t know.”

“I understand about moving a lot, how tough it is. She chose not to give you what you needed most because it would have been hard for her.” She looks down. “She knew what her life was like before she decided to have you. She knew it would be difficult to take care of a child under the conditions your dad set up.”

“She made a mistake,” he says, and is surprised when her hands tighten on his.

“You are _not_ a mistake.” She leans in just a bit, and then her lips brush his. He is immediately suspicious, but a quick check detects no signs of pity or coddling from her. She moves back to look into his eyes. Hers are moss-green, the sign of deep emotion. “ _Buffone_ ,” she says, and gives his hands a shake. “It’s not pity. _Ti amo_ , god knows why sometimes, but I do.”

That makes him feel a funny little ache deep inside. He bends down just slightly, to press his lips to hers and deepen the kiss. He opens to her, invites her in with a physical gesture he knows she’ll understand. She tastes of the _puttanesca_ sauce from tonight’s supper—spicy, savory, a hint of salt, with earthy red wine to bring it all together. She accepts his invitation and strokes his tongue with hers, a gesture made with a shy hesitancy that pleases him in a way he cannot describe, even to himself.

When the kiss ends he stands up, brings her with him. Without a word they go hand in hand to the bedroom. They undress each other, shiver as chilly room air moves over warm, vulnerable flesh; when Greg cups his wife’s breasts her nipples are hard and she’s got gooseflesh.

They warm up quickly under the covers as they join, slow at first, then hard and deep, their sighs and groans mingled until at last release sweeps them into sweetness and they are left in each other’s arms. He falls asleep with his nose in Roz’s damp hair, so that her fragrance surrounds him as he holds her close.

It’s the small hours when he wakes to find he’s alone in the big bed. He sits up slowly, senses on alert, and blinks to clear his sight. Hellboy is snuggled into the rumpled bedclothes against the pillow on her side, which means Roz has been gone for a while. After a moment he sees light from the living room.

An investigation reveals his wife is in the office once more. She’s at work on a tutoring lesson, head bent over the books, as she listens to music on her headphones. Her lips move silently; sometimes he’ll hear her sing under her breath, but quite clearly with recent events to influence her, she’s not willing to risk even that much in case he decides to mock her. Whether it’s the quiet of the house or his wakefulness at this hour, the immensity of that small change hits harder than any realization he’s had to this point. It’s a sign he’s been cruel and self-absorbed for far too long. He moves into the office. She’s so deep in her work that she doesn’t know he’s there until he rests his hands gently on her shoulders. She jumps a bit, goes still, then straightens. He can just hear the music from the headphones.

_my arms are missin’ you_

_my lips feel the same way too_

He rubs her tense muscles with a slow, easy touch—bunch and release, bunch and release, until she relaxes into him with a quiet sigh that tells him why she’s up at this hour.

_I’ve tried so hard to be true_

_like I promised I’d do_

_but this boy keeps a-comin’ ‘round_

_he’s tryin’ to wear my resistance down_

When Greg judges she’s ready he lifts his hands, takes the headphones off, then unplugs the jack to free the music. It fills the room, classic early Funk Brothers playing a great Motown tune.

_hey Jimmy Jimmy oh Jimmy Mack_

_when are you comin’ back_

_Jimmy Jimmy oh Jimmy Mack_

_you better hurry back_

With great care he brings her to her feet, turns her to face him, moves aside to take her in his arms. She goes into them willingly; her hands slide over his back as she rests her cheek on his shoulder.

_but this loneliness I have within_

_keeps reaching out to be his friend_

_hey Jimmy Jimmy oh Jimmy Mack_

_when are you comin’ back_

_need your lovin’_

They dance in place and move together in an echo of the lovemaking they enjoyed earlier. When he feels her draw in a shaky breath and the wetness on his skin from her tears, he says nothing, just brings her closer, his hands gentle.

_Jimmy can’t you hear me Jimmy_

_oh Jimmy Mack you better hurry back_

_when are you comin’ back with your lovin’_

After a while he guides her to the bedroom, eases her into bed. This time he’s the one who spoons her, takes in the feel of her against him, her warm physical presence, the way her hands cover his—everything he pushed away before with such short-sighted stupidity. In the quiet darkness he sends up some kind of inchoate statement of gratitude, and drifts into sleep.

She makes him waffles for breakfast later, served with cherries and sides of sausage and egg. They are sitting at the harvest table to enjoy this repast when Greg says “Who’s the other boy?”

Roz looks puzzled, but only for a moment. To his relief she smiles. “There isn’t.”

“David,” he throws out, just to see her reaction. Her smile widens a bit. She takes this seriously, but it doesn’t trouble her.

“Poppi would have liked that,” she says after a moment. “A good Italian man, hard worker. He’ll get the restaurant, if Poppi hasn’t given it to him already. He’ll do well with it.”

“Would _you_ have liked that?” He’s pushes the limits again, he knows he is, and so soon after he alienated her--this is a foolish risk. But somehow . . . he has to know. Roz swirls a bite of waffle in the cherry sauce and considers his question. She doesn’t appear angry or hurt by it. After a brief hesitation she shakes her head.

“We would have dated a few times, but he’s not for me. Or me for him.”

“So you and I are destined to be together,” he dares to tease.

“No,” she says quietly. “It’s not like that. I never expected . . .” She makes patterns in the sauce, moving the bit of waffle in a slow figure-eight. “I never thought there would be anyone in my life. Who would want me?” She says it without self-pity. “Then you came here, and it was like—“ She pauses. “Like grabbing a live wire,” she says, and looks up at him, her green eyes bright with humor. “Exactly like that. You knocked me flat on my ass and left me tingling in all sorts of places.”

Greg snorts in reluctant amusement. “A live wire messed up your finger.”

“Yeah, well. When you work around electricity, that’s the price you pay sometimes. But there’s nothing I’d rather do.”

“You’re a teacher now,” he points out.

“But I’m still an electrician chick and always will be. That’s okay. I make good money messing around with live wires.” She pops the bite of waffle into her mouth, and he laughs, amused at her pragmatism, in reluctant admiration of her honesty. When he kisses her a moment later her lips are cherry-sweet, soft and warm against his.

“You haven’t asked me how I feel about you,” he says when they are crashed out on the couch together, to watch some old movie on TCM. Roz glances at him, then away.

“Maybe I’m afraid to ask,” is her reply. Greg frowns a little. And then he gets it. That’s what she’s worried about—he’ll use this opportunity to mock or belittle her. He plays with a lock of her hair.

“I’m glad you have a thing for live wires.”

It takes her a moment, but she relaxes just that tiny bit that tells him she really was anxious about what he’d say. “Damn lucky for you then.”

“Yes,” he says, and knows that single word holds more truth than she will ever know.


	35. Chapter 35

_February 9th_

“What am I gonna do about Valentine’s Day?”

Sarah put another spoonful of batter on the waffle iron griddle, closed it and checked the sausages. She glanced at Jason, who measured coffee grounds. It secretly amused her to see how meticulous he was with this particular task, but it resulted in a good brew so she wasn’t about to tease him. “You work that night with me, don’t you?” She turned a sausage.

“Yeah.” Jason added the water and closed the coffeemaker’s lid. “I think Mandy wants to go out, but by the time I get home it’ll be way too late. And there won’t be time after school, I have a tutoring session with Rob.”

“Have you talked with Mandy about this?” Sarah was careful to keep her tone neutral, but Jason hunched his shoulders a bit anyway.

“No,” he mumbled. He kept his back turned.

“She’s pretty understanding. I’m sure she knows you have to work.”

“Girls are weird about that stuff.” His ears were red now, a sure sign of distress. Sarah turned the last of the sausages, checked the waffle iron, and took a seat.

“Sit with me for a minute,” she said, and patted the stool next to hers. Jason hesitated; at last he came over with evident reluctance, sat down and kept his gaze on the floor. Sarah resisted the urge to reach out and tuck an errant lock of black hair behind his ear. “What do you think she’ll do if you tell her you can’t take her out? Give me the first thing that comes into your mind.”

Jason knotted his hands together. “She’ll . . . she’ll be mad.”

“Do you think she’ll yell at you? Maybe hit you?” Sarah asked gently. Jason’s head came up. He glared at her.

“I know she’s not my mother, okay? I’m not stupid!”

“No, you aren’t,” Sarah agreed. “But you are worried about losing Mandy over this.”

“So I suppose that’s dumb and I shouldn’t be worried.”

“When you love someone you worry about things whether you want to or not.”

He thought about it. Sarah saw his shoulders lower a little. “So it’s not dumb.”

“No, more like inevitable. In this case, I think your worries won’t come true. Mandy knows you work and if you could, you’d take the time off.” Sarah paused. “If you tell her the truth she’ll be okay with it.”

Jason swallowed. “I don’t want to disappoint her.”

“Sweetheart, you’ll both disappoint each other now and then. Most of the time it isn’t intentional. This isn’t, is it?” He shook his head. “It’s part of being together, it happens sometimes. When you talk to her later today, tell her what you told me.”

Gene shambled in at that point, disheveled, half-asleep and clearly in search of coffee. As breakfast got underway the discussion turned toward more general matters, but Sarah knew Jason thought about what she’d said, turned it over in his mind. She said nothing more, but kept an eye on him. She was glad to see him loosen up while Sunday morning unfolded as it usually did.

“Rob and Claire are bringing the kids over later,” Sarah told Gene later, as she put plates in the dishwasher. “Rob says they’ve used up all the snow in their front yard making snow people and a fort.”

“Well I take that with a big grain of salt considering there’s six feet of the stuff on the ground,” Gene said dryly. “But it’ll be fun to have them over.” He finished his coffee and stood. “Guess we’d better clear more of the driveway so they’ll have somewhere to park.”

“Let your breakfast settle first,” Sarah said as she always did. “Besides, it’s too cold on that side of the house right now.”

“Yes dear,” Gene said as _he_ always did, and shuffled off to take a shower and get dressed. Jason watched him go, then looked over at Sarah.

“He’ll go out anyway.”

She smiled. “Yeah, he will. But he knows I’ll tell him not to, and I know he’ll do it anyway.”

“So why do you bother?” Jason took the skillet to the sink and began to clean it with hot water.

“Because I love him,” she said, and left it at that.

It was early afternoon when Rob and Claire came to visit, with Josh and Amy bundled into new snowsuits and boots. “They’re both growing so fast we can barely keep them covered,” Claire laughed. Sarah was glad to see the younger woman had lost some of the anxious timidity she’d displayed when they’d first met. It was clear she was happy and felt more secure. Rob looked better too, though his changes were more subtle; he smiled now and then, and his replies held less pointed sarcasm and more humor. He greeted Jason like a younger brother, offered Gene a handshake and an exchange of jokes, and gave Sarah a warm hug. She remembered their first real talk several years previous, as he sat in the office, hung over, miserable, and scared. She silently congratulated him on the hard work he’d put in to find meaning and joy in his life.

“I hear you’re in need of raw materials for makin’ snowmen,” Gene said when greetings were done. “Well we have plenty of it here. I put in a special order.”

“So you’re the one to blame,” Sarah said under her breath. Gene grinned at her, his lean face softened with humor.

“One and the same. Who wants to go out and play?”

Josh hopped up and down, his face bright with excitement. “Me, me!” Amy started to hop too, though it was clear she had no idea why she did it. Rob chuckled and swept her up in his right arm, then took Josh’s hand.

“Come on, you little play fanatics.”

“I’ll have cookies and hot cocoa ready when you come in,” Sarah said. Rob looked at her over Josh’s head. His amusement faded a bit.

“You’re all right?”

“A little sore today,” she admitted. “I’m not really up for the cold.”

Rob nodded, his expression one of mild concern. “Pain levels increased, mobility issues?”

“No and no,” Sarah said. “Nothing a little springtime wouldn’t cure.” She gave him a smile. “Go on, go have fun.”

She watched them through the window as she put a batch of cookies in to bake. Of course the babies did little more than stagger around in the drifts and fall over, but they managed to lob a few handfuls of snow and even contributed to several of the figures the grown-ups constructed. She was pleased to see Jason take part. He started a snowball fight that soon had all of them covered. They’d be soaked through when they came in, so she cleared the dryer and put in some extra blankets to warm. When she returned to the kitchen it was to find Greg next to the pan of cookies, retrieved from the oven. Several cookies were missing and he worked on another. He gave her a sharp stare that raked her from head to foot.

“You’re not outside,” he said, and swallowed a huge mouthful of cookie.

“Hello to you too, and thanks so much for the astute observation,” Sarah said tartly. “You keep eatin’ ‘em that way, you choke. Mind leaving a few for everyone else?”

Greg took another two cookies. “Bake another batch.” He moved to the breakfast bar. “It’s not like you to chicken out.”

“I’m not.” Sarah paused. “You were watching to see if I’d be out there?”

“I just happened to be sauntering by my kitchen door and noticed the raiding party in the back yard. Little kids means you’re in here making treats. And maybe some coffee.” He managed to look pitiful and expectant. Sarah got another container of cookie dough out of the freezer.

“You have a wife who’s an excellent cook,” she pointed out. “Why aren’t you harassing her?”

“She’s neglecting me for her side job. She worries more about tutoring those damn kids than she does about taking care of me.” He went over to the coffeemaker, peered at the carafe. “This looks like road tar.”

“You know Gene likes his coffee strong,” she said. “Stop whining and admit it. You were worried about me.”

Greg took the carafe to the sink and dumped the coffee, rinsed the pot and began to clean it. “You really are full of yourself.”

“Hah.” Sarah began to place cookie dough on the baking sheet. “I’m fine. Just a little achy today.”

“Just a little wussy today,” Greg mocked her.

“I don’t see _you_ out there,” she shot back, and put the sheet in the oven.

“I’m not terrified of cold weather.”

“Neither am I,” Sarah said, and stopped. She straightened slowly, astonished at the discovery she’d just made. “Well, isn’t that interesting,” she said, more to herself than Greg. He glanced at her as he gave the pot a second rinse, and said nothing. “Still not fond of the cold, no. But scared to death of it . . . not any more.” She looked out the window at the adults who now effected repairs to the snow fort built a week ago. “How about that.”

“Your Brit foster daddy will want to hear about this,” Greg said, and filled the carafe with water. “Freedman too, no doubt.”

“Mmmm,” Sarah said absently. Then she moved away from the oven and set the timer. “Take these out in about seven minutes or so, okay? There’s more in the freezer.” She moved past him and put her hand on his shoulder, patted him gently. “Thanks.”

“Hey! I didn’t come over here to do your job!” Greg yelled after her. Sarah chuckled and went to the mudroom to get her parka and mittens.

She was in the yard a few minutes later. “Got room for one more?” she wanted to know. Gene looked her over.

“Who’s making the cookies and cocoa?” Sly humor glinted in his green eyes. Sarah scooped up a handful of snow and stared at him as she patted it into a ball.

“Ask me that again,” she said sweetly. Gene raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“I got no complaints if you want to join us.”

“Good.” Sarah moved over to Amy, who worked hard to make a snowball. “Here, like this, honey.”

A short time later they went inside, and Sarah collected wet coats and gear to hang up or place in the dryer. Gene stayed to help her; they made quick work of the task. By the time they got to the kitchen it was clear Greg had not only baked several sheets of cookies (and eaten at least half of one baking), he’d made coffee and hot cocoa as well. And he was nowhere to be seen.

She found him in Jason’s bedroom, perched on the bed as he stared into the fireplace. Behind the screen, neatly banked embers glowed and sparked under their black coats. “He keeps it cleaner than I did,” he said as Sarah stopped in the doorway.

“Let’s take this somewhere else,” she said. “We’re invading Jason’s privacy.”

“You really do have issues with that issue.”

“I know what it’s like to have nothing of my own.” She moved back. “Come with me, please.”

Greg rolled his eyes but got up and followed her to the office. Sarah shut the door behind them as he took Gene’s chair and settled into it as he glowered at her. “Happy now?” he said.

“Thank you for baking cookies and making the coffee and cocoa,” she said quietly. Greg hesitated, looked away.

“Bet your pain numbers are up.”

“A little. But it was worth it.” Sarah sat back a bit. “Want to tell me why you’re really here?”

“You always think there’s an ulterior motive.” Greg picked up a pen, flipped it from hand to hand.

“There usually is. So what’s up?”

He concentrated on the pen. “You’re the shrink, you tell me.”

Sarah studied him. “You had a fight with your wife,” she said after a suitable interval. Greg flinched. It was a subtle reaction, but she knew him well enough by now to catch his emotions under the impassive mask he wore. “Everything’s okay now, but you’re spooked because you think the next time it happens, she’ll walk away for good.”

Greg tossed the pen onto the blotter. “Lucky guess.”

“Again I say, hah. I don’t guess.” Sarah crossed her fingers under the desk as she said it. “You’re been going through a tough time, you took it out on Roz, she stood up for herself, the air got cleared and you had a nice session of makeup sex. Am I right?”

He glared at her, but she saw the amusement in his gaze. “Stop crowing.” The smile faded. “’Next time’.”

“There’s always a next time,” Sarah said. “If you think this fight takes care of all of future disagreements, it doesn’t. It’s natural for two people who love each other to argue at times, get fed up or annoyed. Taking an all-or-nothing stance is what gets you in trouble.” She tilted her head a bit. “You don’t have to follow John’s example on this, you know.”

“There wasn’t an example. Mom and Dad didn’t fight. Dad laid down the rules, we obeyed them. Anyone who disobeyed incurred discipline.” Greg’s vivid gaze rested on Sarah for a moment, then a point just over her shoulder.

“You just rediscovered with Roz that if you’re willing to meet her at least some of the way, she’ll trust you enough to go the rest of the distance,” Sarah said quietly. “You can do the same with her. Trust is vulnerability, but it’s also taking on the whole person, not just the parts you like, because you believe it’s worth putting up with a few annoyances. And they do the same for you, here’s hoping.”

“It’s a risk with too many variables,” Greg said. Under the harsh tone was fear. Sarah held her breath. The final wall was revealed at last, but it wasn’t her job to take it apart; she’d leave that task to the original builder. “Too much can go wrong.”

“Yes,” she said. “Humans are unpredictable. They lie, they cheat, they’re selfish and manipulative. They get scared and lash out. They get mad and walk away. They misunderstand something you said and take offense, call you names or even throw a punch. That’s the chance you take when you start hanging out with them.” She smiled. “You have to know by now that the risk with Roz is far less than with most people. She’s honest and doesn’t play games.”

He considered it. “Still a risk.”

“Take it or leave it.” Sarah made her tone direct, firm and matter-of-fact. “You’re not working with logic or empirical method here. The human heart is not made to be rational and probably never will be. If you expect anything else, you’re doomed to lose.” She waited a beat. “Is she worth it?”

Greg made an impatient gesture. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Oh, it matters,” Sarah said softly. “It’s the most important element in your relationship with her, because she believes you’re worth it. She’s demonstrated that belief time and again.” She chose her next words with care. “I think much of this uncertainty is due more to your mother’s illness than any real doubts you have in your wife.” Greg looked away and didn’t answer. “How’s her treatment progressing?”

“She’s in Bethesda now. I called in a couple of favors, haggled an agreement or two. She’s getting some of the best care available on the planet, for whatever time she has left.” The subtle pain in his words made Sarah’s heart ache for him, but she knew better than to show it.

“You’ve done everything you can,” she said.

“Her sister’s already bitched me out for not closing up shop here to be with her.” Now he sounded bitter and worse, sad.

“I don’t think Blythe would be comfortable having you hanging over her. She loves you, but she’s always preferred to keep some distance between you and her. You wouldn’t like it either, it’s not where you need to be. You’ve done all you can, son. If other people don’t understand that, I do. And so does Roz.”

After a few moments of silence Greg got to his feet. “Your husband will beat me up if we stay in here another five minutes.”

Sarah said nothing more, just got up to go out with him. As Greg reached to open the door she put her hand on his arm. He paused, bowed his head a little. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to look at her. Sarah smiled and gave him a gentle squeeze, patted him. He nodded once and opened the door.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the living room as they watched movies, with the babies curled up asleep on the couch between Sarah and Gene. Roz came in at some point and claimed the chair next to Greg’s.

“Damn, you found me,” he grumbled.

“Shouldn’t have told me where you were going then,” Roz said, and took his hand in hers. Sarah noticed he didn’t pull away, in fact he clasped her fingers with his.

It was later that evening, after everyone had gone home and they settled the house for the night, that Jason said “Why did House go into my bedroom?”

Sarah finished banking down the fire and put the screen in place. “I’m not sure, sweetheart.” Actually she had a very good idea why, but to voice it aloud would be to violate doctor-patient confidentiality, in her own mind at least.

“He left me something.” Jason reached into his pocket, drew out a small stone. Sarah recognized it as one of the tumbled agates she’d put in Greg’s first Christmas stocking years ago. “What does it mean?”

“I think he was thanking you for the use of the room,” Sarah said. _And officially acknowledged you as the youngest son._ “Got your homework done? Backpack ready to go, lunch made?”

Jason gave her a look of mild disgust edged with affection. “ _Mom_ ,” he said, tucked the stone into his pocket and went to his room. Sarah watched him go, unsurprised to find tears in her eyes. After a moment she went into the office and sat down at her desk. She opened the top drawer, took out some paper and her favorite pen, and set to work.

_Dear Sydney,_

_we’re in the deepest part of winter now, but under the snow it’s still possible to find the green heart of spring waiting for just the right amount of sunshine and warmth. There’s a lot of hard weather ahead of us yet, but every day brings us closer to the growing season._

_My boys are all doing well. My oldest is still discovering the joys and terrors of loving another person. He has severe trust issues, and for good reason; I don’t know that he’ll ever be able to stop testing limits or pushing boundaries. But the one he’s chosen to love knows him, and knows why he does what he does. She offers him grace without condescension, and while a part of him doesn’t understand why, another part does._

_My middle boy has moved from numbing an old and unforgiving pain to finding happiness with a new family. He’s already proving himself to be both a good friend to the single mother he’s courting, and a good father to her little girl and boy. I have no doubt he sees them as his own children, and loves them without hesitation. His life’s best work lies ahead of him, and I think he’ll make an excellent job of it all._

_As for my youngest, he and his girl are the very definition of first love. Watching them together, seeing the discoveries, the mistakes and triumphs, is one of the greatest privileges and most difficult tasks I’ve ever known. As his mother I want to protect him, but I know he needs to experience joy and pain for himself. He’s found a good young woman who’s also his friend, one of the first he made after going into foster care with us. I trust her to do right by my boy, just as he will do right by her._

The phone rang. Sarah reached out for it, mildly annoyed at being interrupted. “Goldman residence,” she said, and then she realized how late it was, even as she caught a glimpse of the caller ID.

“Doctor Goldman?” The voice on the other end was unfamiliar. “This is Holly Kincade. I’m one of the nurses here at the hospice where your brother Ben is staying.”

Sarah closed her eyes. She swallowed once, twice. “Did he—was it peaceful? He didn’t . . . he wasn’t in too much pain?”

“Don’t be disappointed but I ain’t dead yet,” Ben said, and gave a wheezy chuckle. “I know it’s late there. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute, that okay with you?”

Sarah nodded and relaxed her death grip on the receiver. “Yeah—yeah, that’s fine. How are you?”

“’m all right. Not—not much longer now, I think.” He sounded both relieved and scared. Sarah looked down at the letter.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to come out and—and be with you?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Wouldn’t do no good. We can say everything we need to say over the phone.” He fell silent a moment. “Thanks for the vids.”

“You’re welcome. We’ll send another one tomorrow. Is there anything you need or want?”

“Nah, they’re takin’ good care of me here.” He was tiring already, she could hear it in his voice. “I better go, sis. Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Call anytime,” she said. “Anytime. I love you, Ben.”

“Love you too, Sare.”

She sat there for a long time after the call ended, her thoughts scattered, unfocused. It wasn’t until Gene said “Everything all right?” that she realized she was cold. The fire in the woodstove had burned low and the room was chilly.

“That was Ben,” she said. “Just—just checking in.” She rubbed her hands over her sleeves, still a little surprised not to feel the ridges of scars on her forearm.

“Come on,” Gene said, and eased her out of the chair. “It’s late and you’re tired. You can tell me about his call when we’re both in bed and warm enough to talk without our teeth chattering.” He shut down the computer, tucked the unfinished letter into the top drawer. Sarah turned away. As she did so she caught a glimpse of the light from the Houses kitchen door, small but bright, and the larger square of yellow below it that meant someone was still awake. If she needed Greg, she could call and he’d be there. The knowledge steadied her just as much as Gene’s support. Without further hesitation she left the room with her husband, and paused only to turn off the light before she closed the door.


	36. Chapter 36

_February 14th_

It’s Friday night and they’re headed out for the first time in what seems like an eternity. Not just because it’s Valentine’s Day, but for once it hasn’t snowed and the roads are passable.

“Let’s have dinner at Poppi’s,” Roz suggested a few days back. “It’s been a while since we’ve had an evening together, and I’m in the mood for some pizza before we go to the movies.”

That’s an idea Greg can endorse. A night out with his wife will not only earn him good standing with her, it can also be seen as a gesture to honor the spurious holiday foisted on them. “Only if we get to shower together,” he says, and leers at her.

“I’ll take that action,” Roz says in an ominous tone, and narrows her eyes in return—her ‘I double-dog dare you’ look.

So they end up under the steamy spray, and soap each other with a purpose beyond cleanliness. Under his hands her body feels like warm silk, smooth and yielding. They sigh and groan softly as they make love; the water turns everything slick and slippery and twice as pleasurable when orgasm takes them both.

The hot water is nearly gone by the time they get out. While Greg rummages in the dresser for clean jeans and a favorite shirt, Roz chooses the outfit he likes best on her besides her birthday suit—her dark green silk sweater and black velvet slacks. She goes off to do her hair and makeup while he gets into his own clothes. When she returns she’s wearing the diamond stud earrings he gave her. They wink and glitter in the soft light. She looks incredible, elegant and cool; the shimmering deep greeny-black of the sweater brings out the subtle color of her eyes. She comes to him and brushes a kiss over his lips before she takes a comb from the dresser and neatens what’s left of his hair. She smells faintly of lavender and flowers, that spicy-floral scent he associates with her now.

“It looks like I have more if I don’t flatten it down,” he whines as he tries to evade the comb. “Don’t put a part in it, for god’s sake!”

“No, it looks like you’re afraid to touch it because the rest of it will come out. And I didn’t give you a part.” She tucks an errant lock behind his ear. “You need to get it cut. Gordy’s shop should be open this weekend if they can keep things dug out, I’ll drop you off and pick up some groceries while you’re there.”

He takes a surreptitious glance in the mirror when she goes out ahead of him. The bald spot is very much on display—no surprises there, it’s like a wintertime road pothole, it gets bigger every day—but she’s made what’s left look okay. And she’s right, his hair does need to be mowed. He pokes at it just on principle, then follows after her.

They take Barbarella into the village. Everything is white, buried under both snow and salt. There are a few downed trees, a couple of cars in the ditch, mailboxes bent by plows. Roz watches it all go by, but Greg can tell she doesn’t see what’s outside the window. “Nice scenery,” he comments. She doesn’t say anything at first.

“Do you ever think of Tuscany? I mean, our honeymoon?” she says finally.

“When I’ve got nothing better to do,” he says, wary of where this will lead.

“I’m not saying I want to go there again, though it would be nice. Just . . . going someplace else for a little while. A change of scenery.”

“There’s a conference in Miami. In April,” Greg says. He is astonished to hear the words come tumbling out of his mouth. “We could stay for a week, go down to New York for the weekend before.”

Roz turns her head to look at him, clearly surprised. “You want to go? You--you want me to come with you?”

In for a penny, in for a pound, as his mother always said. “I hadn’t planned to go, but it’s a good excuse to get out of here for a week and take you with me.”

She watches him, a steady, clear look that makes him nervous. “All right,” she says at last. She sounds pleased. Great, now he’ll have to get everything arranged. Good thing he’s got McMurphy to deal with the details.

They arrive at the restaurant to find it’s busy—Friday night on a romantic holiday is good business. Sarah greets them at the register. She wears a red apron over her black sweater and jeans. A pair of sparkly red heart-shaped deely-boppers float and waver above her bright auburn curls. “Welcome to Lou’s!” she says with a grin. “Happy Valentine’s Day, you two sweeties!”

“Oh _balls_ ,” Greg groans, and Sarah laughs before she escorts them to a table. Jason clears away dishes; he too wears a red apron, but is spared the indignity of the deely-boppers at least. He sees them, sees Roz, and his eyes widen just a little before he wipes the table-top with care and leaves with the tub of dirty plates and silverware. As they sit down Sarah takes out her pad and pencil.

“What can I get you two lovebirds?”

“I want a Coke and a double order of mozzarella sticks,” Roz says, “with a vat of Poppi’s _marinara_ sauce.”

“Double order, vat. Got it,” Sarah says as she writes, and give Greg an inquiring look. “You?”

He’s still in shock that Roz didn’t order her usual _antipasto_. “Uh—double order of onion rings, extra crispy. And a beer.”

“You mean a Coke. In other words, the usual.” Sarah jots it down and tucks the pad in her apron pocket. “Okay, drinks coming up in a couple of minutes.” She nods at them and sends the little floaty hearts above her head a-quiver, then goes to the kitchen. Roz chuckles.

“She’s having fun,” she says, and reaches out to put her hand over his. When he rolls his eyes she laughs again. “It’s Valentine’s. I’m allowed to hold your hand in public.”

“Any excuse to cop a feel,” he says, but lets her hand stay where it is. He won’t admit he enjoys her touch.

“Did you mean it? About the conference?” Her expression is carefully neutral, but her gaze holds such hope, he can’t bring himself stomp all over her expectations, much as it’ll cost him later.

“Yes,” he sighs in martyred resignation. Roz rolls her eyes at him as Sarah brings their drinks.

“Now that’s the spirit!” she says, and sets the Cokes down in front of them.

“Needs a bourbon chaser,” Greg says. Sarah glances at him, amused. He stares back at her, affronted. _I could trash this,_ he says silently. _I could wipe the smiles off every face in this place, destroy every shred of joy and happiness, make my wife cry, just for shits and giggles._

“But you won’t,” Sarah says softly. She puts a straw by his drink. “What’s for dinner?”

“A large pizza,” Roz says before he can answer. “ _Pecorino_ and mozzarella, with Poppi’s fresh-herb blend under Parma ham, green sweet peppers, red onions and black olives on one half, sausage, pepperoni, ham and meatballs on the other. Use the good extra-virgin to dress it when it comes out, please. Oh, and hot peppers on the side.”

“What she said,” Greg says. It’s her favorite pizza and his too; his mouth waters already.

“Okey-doke. Starters coming up,” Sarah says cheerfully, and goes off to another table to take orders.

“You won’t what?” Roz wants to know. Greg leers at her.

“Lay you on the table and ravish every inch,” he says, and hides his relief when she laughs.

“Damn, another opportunity missed,” she says, and leans in to take a sip of his Coke and leave her lipstick on his straw. Unfortunately for him that’s not a metaphor.

When Jason brings out the appetizers he places the carefully arranged mozzarella sticks and the large bowl of _marinara_ sauce in front of Roz, with all the delicacy of a _maitre’d_ who offers _vichysoisse_ to a princess. Once this task is done he slaps the plate of onion rings down by Greg and departs. Roz sits back. Greg can almost hear her fizz with suppressed laughter.

“Good service here,” she says when she can speak. She picks up a mozzarella stick, dunks it in the sauce and eats half of it. She doesn’t spill a single drop, a skill Greg finds enviable. A look of bliss spreads over her angular features, softens them for a moment. He takes two of the onion rings, folds them in half, and crams them in, savors the caramelized flavor while he burns the roof of his mouth with his impatience.

“Opposite time of the month,” he says after he swallows and takes a gulp of Coke. Roz opens her eyes and gives him a quizzical look. “You usually crave cheese and acidic foods when you’re ovulating.” The moment that last word leaves his lips he wishes he could call it back; despite his defiant thoughts earlier, he has no real desire to harm anyone, especially his wife. She tilts her head to one side, considers what he’s said, but there’s no recrimination or pain in her eyes, in her expression; she doesn’t hide anything because there’s nothing to hide. Greg’s heart fills with a surge of pure love for the rational way she approaches their history together. He knows she feels emotions deeply, but aside from the occasional eruption of temper, she doesn’t allow them to rule her—and yet she always manages to show her love for him without reserve, even when he hurts her. It’s a level of mastery he can only admire with everything in him.

“Well . . . that must be why I want my hands on you,” she says. A sly smile lifts the corners of her lips as she picks up some deep-fried mozzarella, and takes a bite. When she offers him the other half he leans over and nibbles at it, letting his tongue touch her fingers, enjoys the little flare of arousal in her eyes when he does it.

When the pizza comes out it’s perfect, hot and crispy around the edges, with a chewy crust that’s perfect for dipping in the marinara sauce. They do it full justice, though Roz manages about one slice to his four. She’s never been a big eater; she takes her time, savors the blend of savory and spicy. Still, at one point she steals a meatball off his slice and pops it in her mouth, her eyes full of knowing humor.

“Promise to do that to me when we get home?” Greg says, and she licks her fingers. It’s a provocative gesture that makes him realize his jeans are a little too tight, and not just because he’s stuffed with good food.

Once they’re done with the main course and had the leftovers boxed up to take home, they sit back with shots of _espresso_ and a silver dish of homemade chocolates—a surprise from Sarah.

“Tonight’s special,” she says. She looks a little tired now, and the quiet sorrow she keeps so carefully hidden most of the time now is more evident. Still, her smile is genuine. “Jason made the chocolates. He’s got a good side vocation, if he ever decides to take it up.”

Greg picks up a truffle and regards it with suspicion. “No guts no glory,” Roz says, plucks it from his fingers and eats it as Sarah laughs.

“If he knows you’re eating them too then he didn’t poison them,” he says, and takes another truffle. Sarah snorts in amusement.

“He made several batches yesterday and I’m the one dividing them up to serve. I doubt he’d want to do in every customer who comes in tonight. Anyway, he won’t kill you off _now_ , you know. It’s too soon. He’ll wait till he’s in residency.”

Greg gives her an offended glare, while Roz snickers. He swings the glare to her. “Anything to say?” he asks. She shakes her head, downs her espresso in one shot like the true Italian girl she is, and holds outs her demitasse to Sarah.

“More, please? I have to put up with him for the rest of the evening.” But she smiles when she says it—she doesn’t mean it. A warm feeling fills up Greg’s chest, and it’s not due to the caffeine in the espresso.

As they sit there engaged in a desultory conversation, Mandy and Anne Faust come in. It’s clear very quickly they are expected; Sarah escorts them to a booth at the back near the kitchen door. They are seated with decorum, coats taken. Sarah goes into the back, and a few moments later Jason comes out. He holds a red envelope; when he presents it to Mandy his face is almost the same color as the paper. She accepts it from him, opens it, reads the card. Her smile is beautiful. She reaches out, touches his hand as she says something quietly, and he nods, his expression one of mingled relief and anxiety. Anne watches them with a smile. Jason takes their order. As he turns to go into the kitchen he glances at Greg. There is a defiant edge to that look, along with a new and uncertain pride. Then he’s gone as he moves through the swing door into the busy kitchen.

“They’re good for each other,” Roz says softly.

“They don’t have anyone else.” Greg sits back, his gaze on her now.

“Mandy has a standing offer with one of the guys in her Creative Writing class.” Roz picks up one of the chocolates, takes a nibble. “Jason might not know it, but both girls in Advanced Calc think he’s a hottie.”

“Good to know you’re up on the latest high school gossip.”

“I’m a tutor, I hear things.” She flashes him a smile and eats the rest of the chocolate. “We’d better be on our way or we’ll be late for the movie.”

When they emerge into the night, it’s to be met by a wild flurry of flakes. Everything’s coated with a good inch of fresh snow. Roz looks around, then reaches out and turns up the collar of Greg’s pea coat. “Oh well,” she says, and laughs just a little. “Guess it’s a night at home watching On Demand.”

“I can think of other things we can do,” he says. Yeah, it’s predictable, but she’ll like it anyway, and she does.

They arrive home eventually and get through the familiar ritual—they hang their winter gear over radiators and heat vents, while Hellboy winds around their feet and begs for a second supper. Once he’s been fed he leads the way into the living room. When Roz follows him she discovers a red heart-shaped helium balloon tethered to a pair of small presents on the coffee table. Greg sits on the couch as she opens the paper to reveal a DVD and a CD, both _A Hard Day’s Night_ , remastered and restored copies. He knows her love of Eighties and girl-group music is surpassed only by her enjoyment of early Beatles. The look on her face is worth the hassle he went through to get pristine editions. So is the kiss he receives as a thank you for his efforts.

Much to his surprise, she has a gift for him too. She goes into the bedroom and returns with a small box. She offers it to him. He takes it with some hesitation; his anxiety levels are already elevated. He’s always hated to open gifts in front of the giver; invariably he says something, does something, to ruin everything. As he holds the little box, Roz’s hands come up to cover his.

“ _Amante_ ,” she says, “if you don’t like it, I won’t hate you. I’ll just give you a hard time and make you feel guilty as hell.”

He has to snort at that, but now it’s easier to open his present. When he does so he finds the box contains a tumbled piece of amethyst—her favorite semi-precious stone, she has bits of it tucked here and there all over the house. This piece is flat and round, about the same size and shape as a peppermint candy. On one side is inscribed a simple compass rose. On the other side is the word ‘imagine’.

“Just a reminder that you have options,” she says, “especially with me.” When she offers him her beautiful smile, he can’t help but accept that too.

So they spend the rest of the evening on the couch and watch the movie, something his wife thoroughly enjoys; she even sings along with the songs in that soft little untuneful voice of hers, a sign of great trust, he knows. And then when the movie ends, when the shadows are deep and the house is quiet, they go into their bedroom and undress each other slowly, take their time, explore each other even as they shiver and sigh, ready for the protective layers of their bed. As they climb in Greg finds the sheets are warm—Roz turned on the heated mattress cover some time before, probably when they first came home. It feels glorious to slide into delicious comfort, to find Roz’s slender, yielding body next to his, warmer than even the bedclothes around them.

It is both a delight and a wonder to explore her, to use his tongue and fingers, his own body, rough and uncouth as it is, to give her pleasure, to make her sigh and cry out when he enters her, slow and sweet. It’s something they’ve done many times now, but it never grows old or boring; every time is new, delicious, amazing.

They lie in each other’s arms afterward. Roz tucks her cheek against his shoulder and lets go a long, soft sigh, her breath warm on his skin. A few moments later she’s in the first stage of sleep, as her body relaxes slowly. Greg brings the covers up and holds her a bit closer. When sleep comes for him too he doesn’t resist.

_He sits by the window and watches the rain fall. It is early evening. The soft pearly light leaches away, drop by drop. There is some comfort in knowing the processes of life continue apace. There is terror in that knowledge too._

_“Still here,” Amber says. She smirks at him, her eyes glinting and green as a cat’s. “So predictable, like all the other drops of sea-water walking around.”_

_He stares at her. And then he says “No.”_

_Amber’s brows rise. “No?” she says sweetly. “No what?”_

_He gestures at the room around him, feels the raging phantom ache in his thigh—the pain he still remembers all too well. “No to this. I don’t belong here.”_

_Amber leans forward. “You’ll always belong here,” she says with confidence. “Deny it all you like—“_

_“No,” he says again, and finds to his surprise he means it—it’s not just mindless defiance, it’s the truth. “No, I don’t.”_

_Amber regards him for a long moment. She crosses one leg over the other. “Interesting,” she says. “Continue.”_

_“There’s nothing more to say,” he snaps. “To quote someone else you used to know, ‘I’ve moved on’.”_

_“And I say you haven’t.”_

_“And I say you’re full of shit. I just told you the truth. Either come up with a good reason for my being here or leave me the fuck alone!”_

_Amber sits up a little. She tilts her head to one side, studies him for a few moments. Then she offers him a slight smile. “Toodle-oo,” she says._

“Mmmm . . . _amante_ , what is it?” Roz moves back a bit, her hand on his chest. “Are you all right?”

He comes to himself there, with his woman in his arms and the cat asleep at his feet, the quiet darkness around them. His dream-self was right—he doesn’t belong in that place of terror and pain any longer. This is where he belongs; this is what he needs. And even better, it’s what his wife needs too.

 _My shrink will want to know about this but I’ll make her work for it first_ , he thinks. A smile lifts the corners of his mouth. “Just a dream,” he says out loud, and brings Roz a little closer. Just before sleep claims him once more he catches a glimpse of snow outside the window, as it falls soft and slow.


	37. Chapter 37

_February 20th_

When Greg emerges from the house, a nice morning is underway. The ambient temperature is close to something like warmth, and the sun is out. Icicles drip and glitter in the bright light, and there’s even a bit of driveway exposed. The sky above is blue, with a few small white clouds here and there. After a moment he steps off the porch and takes off down the lane to the house next door.

The first thing he notices, when he enters the mudroom, is the quiet. There’s no bustle in the kitchen, no music or news on the radio; the washer and dryer stand silent, with unsorted clothes in baskets on the floor. A chill of anxiety slide down Greg’s spine. Without further hesitation he goes into the kitchen, and spies Sarah at the dining room table.

He approaches her slowly. She looks out the window at the beautiful morning. On the table are seed catalogs, a half-finished list next to a garden-planner printout. The phone is still in her hand. There is a stillness about her that tells him the call came in a short time ago, perhaps even moments before he walked in. “What is it?” he says like an idiot, his voice too loud, too harsh. Sarah doesn’t react at first. Then she turns her head just a little to look at him. There are no tears, no overt sadness, but her sea-green eyes hold so much pain. She doesn’t get up though, doesn’t come to him; she knows he has no skills at comfort, or any desire to do it in the first place. He gropes for a chair, sits down.

“We were talking about making a vid of us planting peas. Jason and me, I mean,” she says at last. Her words are quiet, without emotion. _Shock_ , he thinks. She’s pale, even for her fair skin. “We knew it was a long shot . . .” She closes her eyes for a moment. “He asked for me at the end. The woman who was taking care of him—Holly, she said . . .” She stops, takes a breath, opens her eyes. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m babbling.”

“Where’s Gunney?”

Sarah looks down at the phone. “In town. To put gas in the truck . . . and bring some home for the snow blower.” She sets the phone on the table, gets to her feet. “I’ll make your lunch.”

“There’s no point acting like nothing’s happened,” he says, helpless in the face of what she’s going through. She makes a little gesture of negation.

“Don’t. Just—just don’t. Not yet. I need . . . Things need to be—normal, for a little while. Just a little while. Okay?”

He follows her into the kitchen. “Things aren’t normal now,” he says, still in that loud harsh voice he can’t seem to stop. “You can’t—“

“Greg. _Please_.” She turns around, faces him. Now he sees the tears in her eyes and understands finally she is doing her best to control the grief she feels, because it’s a wild thing inside her, and it threatens to tear her to shreds. ‘Normal’ is the only way she can handle it, for right now at least.

“So . . . don’t tell me you’re out of roast beef.” It’s a completely lame line, but it’s the best he can do on short notice. Sarah doesn’t move at first. Then she goes to the fridge and opens it, takes out the lunch meat.

“There’s some left. Jason got most of it this morning,” she says. She doesn’t try to sound cheerful; her voice is very quiet. This is so opposite what constitutes ‘normal’ he can’t bear it. But he has to, because she’s asked him.

So he sits at the breakfast bar and watches as she makes him his usual: two sandwiches, with the ritual of bread to slice and layers of meat and cheese, dry with no pickle, the way he likes it; cookies, an apple and a banana, chips, a bottle of Coke. They all go into the container, packed with care. Then she hands it to him. He takes it, sets it aside and pulls out his phone, calls work.

“I won’t be in,” he tells McMurphy. “Tell the gang of idiots to work on files and get some candidates, I’ll be in touch later.”

“What’s up?” she wants to know. There’s concern under her sharp tone.

“Family business. Not mine, Goldman’s,” he says, and hears her intake of breath. She knows what he means.

“Okay.” And she’s gone. He makes another call, this one to Roz.

“Get home.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s Sarah’s brother.”

Roz doesn’t hesitate. “I’m on my way.”

He makes one more call to a number tucked away in his contact list. “Sarah needs you,” he says when it’s answered.

“Her brother,” the Brit says. “Right, then. I’ll put in my best effort to get there as fast as can be done.”

Sarah stands there as he puts his phone away. “Sit down,” he says. As she slowly obeys he gets up, goes to the stove, puts the kettle on, and makes her a cup of tea with plenty of sugar. When he puts the mug in front of her she takes it without comment, sets it on the counter.

“Thanks,” she says. There’s a little bit of color in her face now. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Yeah, right. I’m leaving you here alone because that’s just such a smart thing to do. Shut up and drink your damn godawful brew. You might also consider thanking me for knowing how to make a decent cuppa.”

That earns him a slight smile. She sips the tea as he opens the cookie jar and extracts a handful of oatmeal-raisin cookies, dumps them on the counter. He takes one and stuffs it in, chews noisily, swallows. “When’s the yard ape due home?”

“This afternoon.” She looks around. “I should—I should call him. Where did I—where’s the phone?”

Greg picks up another cookie and goes into the dining room to retrieve the phone. He hands it to Sarah without comment. While she makes the call he listens to her talk to her boy in her quiet voice—too quiet; the music’s gone out of it. When the call ends she sits with the receiver in her hands, head bowed a little. “Thanks,” she says after a brief silence. “He’ll call Gene and come home with him.”

“What’s going on in Oklahoma?”

Sarah shakes her head. Her curls barely move. “I’m not going out. Ben asked me not to—he said he set everything up with the hospice. He doesn’t—didn’t want anyone at a funeral or—or anything like that.” She straightens, sets the phone aside. “I’ll respect his wishes. But tonight I’m having a wake. He—he did ask for one.” She lifts her gaze to his. The pain is still there, but it’s not taking over. “I’d like the band to play here tonight.”

“Amplified instruments in your home?” Greg raises his brows.

“It’s a special occasion. Don’t get used to it.” She smiles again, or tries to. It’s a valiant attempt, and even if it falls short, he gives her credit for doing what she can.

So he stays with her, through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, while Gunney and the kid and Roz come in and take over. At one point they persuade her to take a nap, but when Greg makes a surreptitious check on her half an hour later she’s still awake, huddled on the couch with a blanket draped over her. He sits down in his easy chair and reaches out, takes her hand. Sarah opens her eyes and looks at him, clearly surprised.

“Special occasion,” he says. “Don’t get used to it.”

After a moment her fingers tighten on his. A few minutes later she’s asleep—just a light doze, but it’s better than nothing.

It is dark and well into the supper hour when the Brit shows up. He doesn’t even bother to greet anyone else; he goes straight to the couch, where Sarah is camped out. Without a word he eases her to her feet, and envelops her in his embrace.

“My dear girl,” he says quietly. She stands there for a moment, and then she buries her head in his coat. Her shoulders shake. The Brit holds her as his big hands rub her back. Then he takes her with him into the office and closes the door.

They emerge half an hour later. Sarah’s eyes are swollen and her nose is red, but she looks better. Without another word she goes into the kitchen and helps with dinner. The Brit comes over to Greg. “Better now,” he says, “she’ll be all right,” and Greg nods. They leave it at that.

Eventually a potluck buffet of sorts is laid out on the dining room table. The house fills up with people—Greg’s team, Chase’s woman and her kids, McMurphy, Anne Faust and her daughter, Jay, Poppi Lou—and everyone’s brought some dish to share. Sarah goes from group to group, exchanges hugs, talk, even a bit of laughter now and then. Greg notices Jason is never far from his mother, and Gene stays close too. Not hovering, just within eyesight.

After the food’s been enjoyed, gathered up and put away, the band sets up in the living room. This is just weird, no other word for it, but it’s also got the feel of a ceremony, which is exactly what Sarah wants of course. This is a wake, after all. After they have everything in place—keyboard, amps, drums, all of it—Chase takes the toddlers upstairs where they’ll sleep and not be kept awake by the music, while everyone else gathers in the living room with a drink of some kind, mostly whiskey, though one or two are doing non-alcoholic stuff. As people find seats and Jason tends to the fire, Sarah comes in with the Martin six-string in one hand and a stiff shot of whiskey in the other. She sits down, sets the shot on the floor by her chair, checks the guitar’s tuning, waits for them to quiet down.

“You all know my brother Ben died today,” she says at last. “Thank you for coming out to offer support. It means a lot.” She holds the Martin gently. “Ben was my little brother and I loved him with all my heart. It was hard to do that for a lot of years, but at the end we made it as right as we could.” She falls silent a moment. “A few days ago he asked me to play for him. He requested one song in particular. I’m going to play it for you now. It was one of his favorites, and I think he would be happy to have this start off his wake. He had a tough life, but it still deserves to be honored because he did his best to make things good, when he was able.”

She strums a chord, and then she sings a song Greg knows well from his long stay in this house—his first true home, where Sarah’s soft, clear voice eased him into sleep many a night.

_who knows what tomorrow brings_

_in a world where few hearts survive_

_all I know is the way I feel_

_if it’s real I keep it alive_

_the road is long_

_and there are mountains in our way_

_but we climb a step every day_

_love lift us up where we belong_

_where the eagles cry on a mountain high_

_love lift us up where we belong_

_far from the worlds we know_

_to where the clear winds blow_

Roz gives his hand a squeeze. She sits next to him, her chair pushed up close to his. Her fingers are warm and strong; her touch is welcome, an anchor to love and life in this moment.

_some hang onto used to be_

_they live their lives lookin’ behind_

_when all we have is here and now_

_all our lives up there to find_

_the road is long_

_and there are mountains in our way_

_but we climb a step every day_

Greg looks around the room as she plays. This collection of people have become family, to Sarah, to him, to each other, in a process of alchemy peculiar to the human mind and heart. Much as he might rail against it at times, it’s still true; and if he’s honest, some part of him deep within is just a bit relieved.

_time goes by_

_no time to cry_

_life’s you and I_

_alive today_

_love lift us up where we belong_

_where the eagles cry on a mountain high_

_love lift us up where we belong_

_far from the worlds we know_

_up where the clear winds blow_

When the song is done, Sarah stills the strings and sits in silence for a moment. Greg knows she says goodbye to her brother, but probably to much more as well. Then she lifts her head and offers them a smile. It’s a bit dimmed, and yet still genuine. She picks up her shot of whiskey and lifts it. “To Benjamin James Corbett, with love and a kiss for good luck,” she says, and waits until everyone does the same. They toast her brother. The house is silent as they do it, with only the crackle and pop of the fire as they drink.

 “All right, let’s get this wake going,” she says when glasses are lowered, and Greg gets up to take his place at the keyboard. Gene starts them off with ‘Whiskey in the Jar’ done Thin Lizzy style, at Sarah’s request. “Ben loved this song the way they did it,” she’d said a couple of hours before. A quick consult and an impromptu run-through has them on a nodding acquaintance with the song—and anyway, it’s a wake. Perfection is far from required here.

And so they move on to other songs, with laughter and singing, and Sarah tells a story or two on her brother—happy ones, no pain or anger here, just bright memories. Soon enough the evening’s done, and he and Roz get ready ready to go home as people slip away one by one. Before they leave Sarah comes up to him and slips her arms around him in a gentle embrace.

“Thank you for taking such good care of me today, son,” she says softly. He brings his arms up, awkward and yet oddly pleased too.

“Have to make sure the only decent shrink for miles is in good shape,” he says, and she laughs just a little.

“Nothing like enlightened self-interest.” She goes on tip-toe and kisses his cheek. “You and Roz be careful walking home.” Her eyes hold so much love and affection—for him, he knows. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“That you will. You need anything, you call,” he says quietly, and she nods.

“I will.”

“I meant 911, not me.”

She smacks his arm lightly. “Shut up and go home, smartass.”

When he and Roz step out it’s to find a cold night, but clear. The stars twinkle bright and sharp in the tree branches; the snow crunches and squeaks under their feet. “Thanks for calling me today,” Roz says. Greg glances at her. After a moment he slips his arm around her waist, just a loose hold, but still claiming her. She does the same, so that her small hand comes to rest on his hip as they enter their yard and make their way home.

 

_'Up Where We Belong,' Buffy St. Marie_


End file.
